A Slytherin's Spell
by Incarnadine
Summary: A Slytherin is made Head Boy, and Harry is certain that he is not what he seems. But a choice that this boy has to make will change the fate of the wizarding world... Now complete.
1. Prologue: Changing Perspective

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Daniel Fletcher, the slightly deranged mind from which this story comes, Green Day's latest album, a large heap of biscuits and (owing to a rather interesting wager a couple of years ago) Draco Malfoy's immortal soul. I might claim to own Blaise Zabini. But that would just be wishful thinking. All else belongs to JK Rowling. Needless to say, I make no profit from any of this in any way.**

_**A Slytherin's Spell**_

_**Prologue: Changing Perspective**_

"_Perspective, as its inventor remarked, is a beautiful thing. What horrors of damp huts, where human beings languish, may not become picturesque through aerial distance!"_

George Eliot (Daniel Deronda)

It's odd to think that the actions of one man can change the world, can save or condemn thousands of innocents. There are not many who possess the power, guts and charisma to win hearts and minds, to change everything with a single word. And this life-changing hero or villain need not be the obvious suspect. Very few people have ever doubted that, should the devil-man I will call the 'Dark Lord' for reasons of convenience ever be stopped, then the _wunderkind _Potter would be the one to do it.

For those in the know, of course, a certain prophecy provided a good reason to believe this. Sybil Trelawney was no Seer. But those who were commended her prophecy as a genuine one. And sealed it up with the others in the Hall of Prophecy, to be forgotten for many years. When re-discovered it was taken as an affirmation of Potter's status as the Chosen One. And yet, the language was opaque, and in the heat of the moment some possible meanings were never considered.

…_either must die at the hands of the other…_

Neither of _them_ would be able to strike the death blow; in a battle of equals, neither can win. Who, then, was this mysterious 'other'? Was he the one man with the power to avert an otherwise inevitable fate? No, surely, a troubled man, a man with a foot in both camps, hence either one could die at his hands. But no one stopped to wonder about this interpretation. There was no profit in idle speculation. Again and again Potter had stopped the Dark Lord, therefore he would vanquish him completely at the end… or be vanquished.

And so it was that the young man whose agonising decision would one day decide the fate of the world stepped out of a steam train on September 1st, unheralded and unnoticed. Well, not quite unnoticed. Heads did turn as he walked up, accompanied by his best friend, to the horseless carriages. He wasn't handsome, exactly, but an almost electrifying charisma radiated from him. It looked as though it was not only teenaged girls who fell under his spell. As he moved, his silver Head Boy's badge glittered in the weak moonlight.


	2. Aren't all Slytherins evil?

_**Chapter 1: Aren't all Slytherins evil?**_

"_If everybody is thinking alike, then somebody isn't thinking."_

George S. Patton, Jnr.

To say that it was not the best piece of news Harry Potter could have heard on his arrival back at school would have been gross understatement. He did not like the idea at all, and wanted as many people to know that as possible.

"It's madness!" he exclaimed when he was told. "After all that's happened, a Slytherin head boy? Isn't that the last thing we need, a Death Eater at Dumbledore's right hand!"

This little outburst was in the horseless coaches on the way to the castle. They were not horseless to Harry, nor to the object of his indignation, who rode quietly and inoffensively about four carriages back. Ron seemed of one mind with his friend, as in so many things, but Hermione and Neville exchanged nervous looks. This was not a good way for the year to start.

They did try to reason with him. Passing through the entrance hall and breezing past the almost-first years, Neville said, "Just cause he's a Slytherin doesn't mean he's a Death Eater, Harry."

A small voice made all four of them look round. "Excuse me." They turned to see a small, thin wisp of a boy in oversized robes, looking up at them with awe but also with confusion. Harry sighed. Yet another year of newcomers to gawp at him and to whisper in the corridors after him for the mandatory fortnight.

The boy shrank further, seeing the sixth years' gazes fall upon him, and stared at his shoes. Eventually, Neville said, "Yes?" kindly, but just a little impatiently. The boy was still more flustered by actually being spoken to by a friend of the great Harry Potter, but in the end managed to choke out words:

"Excuse me for butting in, but aren't _all_ Slytherins evil?"

Harry's eyes widened slightly at this thought. It sounded silly and childish put to him, well, by this silly child, but it was, after all, what he had been implying. True, Tom Riddle had been in Slytherin, but so too had Sirius Black. And he knew nothing whatever about the young man he had been so thoroughly lambasting. It wasn't fair, and it took a child to make him realise that.

He looked down himself to answer the boy, who looked on the verge of being completely overwhelmed by the whole thing. "No. No, they're not. I was just… overreacting. Gryffindors and Slytherins don't like each other. But that doesn't make _all _Slytherins evil." He saw Hermione looking slightly relieved and decided to tease her. "Just most of them." And then the four of them passed on into the Hall, and Harry refused to say another word on the matter.

The Sorting followed. Watching the tiny first years made Harry feel old. He was old, he supposed, older than his features and his years would allow. It was not every boy who had to tackle the living embodiment of evil on a regular basis, and though he seldom let it show, he felt it. It aged him inside. Loss ages people too, and the loss of his only 'parent' figure had hit him hard. Perhaps that was why he had given up complaining about the new Head Boy. Something to do with Sirius. Mind you, it could equally have been finding that no one else cared.

After the remains of the feast were cleared away, Dumbledore rose to make his welcome speech. "Welcome or welcome back, whatever the case may be," he said, his blue eyes gleaming benevolently. "First years should note that an ever increasing list of banned substances can be found pinned to the door of the caretaker's office. Mr Filch himself has asked me to stress that students caught out on the corridors after 11pm will be dealt with severely. He has not told me _how_ severely; however it is my belief that I saw him recovering some large and nasty whips from the dungeons just the other day…" The twinkle in the eyes was still there, Harry noticed. "And the Forbidden Forest, is, well, forbidden. First years and troublemakers please note, this is no time for sneaking off to play pranks." There was definitely a grave note to his dry voice now.

"All that remains is for me to introduce our Head Boy and Girl to the rest of the school. Allow me to present…Kirsten Prentice"- Applause. A curly haired girl from the Ravenclaw table stood up and bowed rather embarrassedly - "and Daniel Fletcher." The tall, controversial Slytherin stood and inclined his head slightly as an acknowledgement of the muted applause. Harry looked across the hall and his eyes met Fletcher's. Those eyes were pale, icy blue, and Harry shuddered. He could feel an almost frightening level of power within the seventh year.

"Are you alright, Harry?" It was Seamus, sitting next to Harry, who had noticed his slight involuntary movement. His eyes followed his neighbour's gaze, and then he nodded slightly. "I agree with you. There's something not quite right about our new Head Boy."

Harry started. "What? How did you know what I was thinking?" he hissed.

"Elementary," drawled Seamus, though Harry had to decipher the word from the Irish boy's accent. "A Slytherin Head Boy during the first year of… You Know Who's new reign of terror?" Seamus looked shamefaced. He could never bring himself to say the Dark Lord's name. "I'm not sure it's a good idea. But, sure, Dumbledore will have his reasons."

Harry wished he shared that conviction. But perhaps his fears were truly unfounded. And anyway, how much power did the Head Boy really have? Surely, it wouldn't be enough…

**(A/N: Yes, another short chapter. I know; it's terrible. They get longer. If you're reading this, review! Otherwise I might think that I'm writing to myself…)**


	3. Dirty Blood and Deadly Rivalry

_**Chapter 2: Dirty Blood and Deadly Rivalry**_

"_Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy if possible."_

Stonewall Jackson

As it happened, settling in to the first year of the NEWT programme distracted Harry from any unsettling thoughts he might have had about the dark, brooding figure of Fletcher. He was naturally distrustful of the boy: he was a Slytherin; he had a frightening amount of power locked in his slight frame; he was effortlessly charismatic - charisma is a much valued quality amongst dictators – and he was a _Slytherin_. An enemy. He had much the same eyes as Malfoy, and from snatches of conversation overheard, much the same voice. Maybe it was a pure-blood thing.

The object of Harry's perhaps irrational anger and hatred was currently lounging in the Slytherin common room, a cool, heartless place, suiting the tone of most of its occupants. Daniel Fletcher sat in a green armchair, watching the pale yellow fire flickering gently. He had an affinity with fire, despite his icy reserve that some people, observing from a distance, might mistake for cruelty or snobbery, right up until the point when they spoke with him and were lost.

He never asked to have such power over people given to him. He had never wanted people to open their minds to him after a short acquaintance. It made manipulating people all too easy. He was a Slytherin because, as the saying goes, he could resist anything, except temptation. The pure power afforded him by his charm created far too many temptations for a young man who just wanted to be normal and good.

There were only a few people in Slytherin House immune to the draw of his personality. One of these, whom he regarded with something approaching hatred, was Draco Malfoy. He would naturally have sympathised with Draco – after all, Fate had provided him too with far too many temptations – had the young Malfoy not treated him like dirt, and all for being what the arrogant silver haired son of a Death Eater termed "dirty blooded". He was emphatically not a pureblood. He disliked most of them - pure-blood mania struck him as unhealthy. Whilst his father came from an old line of wizards, his mother was a 'Mudblood' in Malfoy's terminology, as was his grandmother. Among his friends, it was said, jokingly, that Daniel had "the dirtiest blood in Slytherin".

Much to the young Malfoy's irritation, many of his cronies had fallen sway to the Fletcher charm. Not, obviously, the pureblood snobs like himself - Fletcher could comfort himself with the thought that he was possibly the only young man in Slytherin safe from the clutches of the repulsive, insinuating Pansy - but enough to make Draco feel undermined. He ground his teeth in a murderous way as he sat at the opposite end of the common room, alone but for his brick wall henchmen, watching Fletcher closely. It did not help that the accursed half-blood Blaise, whom Malfoy had kept in check by making him believe that a pureblood's companionship was truly an honour, was now fast friends with their new Head Boy. It irritated Draco, not least because he had no true friends himself. The draw of the Malfoy name seemed to be fading. And it had gone so well for five years…

Harry was standing outside the classroom with his friends, waiting for the previous class to finish, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Well, well, nice to see you all survived the holiday," drawled Draco Malfoy, cold eyes flickering over the trio. He mocked their friendship, because it was something he had never experienced, and given his father's plans for him, he never would.

"No thanks to your dad's best friend," snapped Harry. He was in no mood for this.

"You remind me, Potter," said Malfoy, with a repulsive smirk that might have been intended to be a grin. "'Dad's best friend' has been a big help recently." He held up that morning's _Prophet_.

**Azkaban Breakouts; Dementors Switch Sides** read the grim headline. A sneering picture of Malfoy Senior was included among the faces underneath. "See; I told you he wouldn't be inside for long."

"He's still on the run, Malfoy," Ron snarled, though his heart was sinking slowly into his boots. "And everyone _knows_ what he is now."

"Why not go off and celebrate with your Death Eater friends?" Harry asked, half turning his back on his enemy. "Have a couple of drinks with the new Head Boy, isn't he right in Voldemort's pocket?"

Malfoy flinched at the name, but snapped, "Fletcher is no friend of mine! That sneaking little filthy blooded excuse for a Slytherin…"

He got no further. Standing right behind the hapless Draco was the Head Boy himself.

Daniel Fletcher cleared his throat audibly, but looked surprisingly amused, possibly at the sight of Malfoy's sneer vanishing, to be replaced with a frightened, pleading look. Harry wanted to laugh himself. That was a true Death Eater's expression.

"Go on, Draco, tell these people how I'm a disgrace to the house of Slytherin, to wizards everywhere, to my ancient and noble blood line - though surely my _father _and _grandfather_ were the 'blood traitors', as you people so elegantly put it." The Head Boy did not seem offended in the least, but he was enjoying Malfoy's inarticulate struggle to escape the embarrassing situation. He failed, and fled.

Fletcher laughed at his departing back. "What an arrogant little git. _Some_ Slytherins really are awful. And what he said is true; he and I aren't friends, and never will be. I don't know why he thinks calling me "half-blood" is an insult; the Dark Lord is one from what _I've_ heard, so surely mini-Death Eater Malfoy should keep his lip firmly buttoned. Oh well, some people don't know what's best for them." Harry, to whom these last words were addressed, tried to suppress a smile. The Head Boy really was human. And he hated Draco Malfoy. Harry was half won over already.

**(A/N: Come on, people, if you read this, review! Else I might just give up now. And you don't want me to do that, because Chapter 3 is quite good, even if it is the author who says it.)**


	4. An Internal Struggle

_**Chapter 3: An Internal Struggle**_

"_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,  
doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."_

Edgar Allen Poe (The Raven)

It was dark in the Slytherin common room, but no darker than the heart and soul of the sole occupant of the room, a tall, thin boy with an angular face. Draco Malfoy failed to appreciate the rich irony; the similarities between the silent, cold, dark room and his own inner self. He felt something that he had never felt before in his life. He felt miserable. Malfoys didn't feel sadness and misery. They felt resentment, but never sadness. The only "real" emotion he was allowed to feel was fear. All other feelings he had were mid-tones, no black or white. No one could hurt him because no one could get near him. His dark, wounded soul was sealed off from everyone.

Malfoy was not a Death Eater. He hated his father for his hypocrisy; for claiming that to be a pureblood and a Malfoy was practically to be a prince, and then fawning to his _Master_, a twisted little half-blood. He didn't know if he was evil or not. His father meant him to be, he knew, but he would do anything now to disappoint that man. He couldn't join the Dark Lord. Draco's mind, heart and soul were his own.

He blamed his parents. It was impossible not to; anyone could see why Draco had turned out the way he had. He was terrified of his father's wrath; in a lesser way, he was frightened of Crabbe and Goyle. Their fathers were Death Eaters too, they could be spies sent to trap him and reveal his hatred of the Dark Lord's cause. And if they were spies and if they did reveal that, his life would be over.

He didn't know whether it was worth living anyway. He could either sell his soul to the Devil or die horribly as a traitor. Either way, people he knew would be the ones who would kill him. Should he join his father's "Cause", Potter would probably destroy him, and be glad. If he did not, it would be his fellow Slytherins who struck the death blow. It didn't matter to him which it was. Every way he turned was a dead end. He couldn't escape the nightmare that lay before him. There was no way that he could wake up.

Draco was not given to this dark introspection. He would not normally willingly spend any of his waking time dwelling on his inadequacies or his eventual fate. Those thoughts were the ones he saved to torment his dreams. This unusual brooding was caused by Fletcher, however much Draco wanted to deny that. The boy had always been there, one year up, charming all and sundry, but it had never really mattered till now. Humiliating him in front of Potter, his arch-enemy, was the last straw in a long and irritatingly unintentional campaign to ruin his life.

He hated Fletcher for much the same reason as he hated Potter. It was so easy for them. Their families didn't have _expectations _like Draco's father did. They weren't caught between loyalty to their families and loyalty to themselves. All Potter's Muggles wanted was for him to get out of their house, and he was quite happy to oblige. Fletcher's father was dead, and his mother plunged so deep in grief that she no longer cared what he did or did not do. It was easy for them to be good. For Draco, it was all too easy to follow the path of least resistance; too easy to betray himself and become a devil like the rest.

At the root of his misery was the dark knowledge, that however hard he tried to blame his father, it was all his own fault. His fault that Potter hated him; how could the boy like him when all the words that had ever passed between them were insults? It was his fault that Fletcher had taken all his 'friends'. He had never tried that hard to keep them.

It was never this bad before _he_ came back. The only Slytherins that would associate with Draco now were the ones that he didn't want to see; the ones whose fathers followed the Dark Lord, snivelling and on their knees, just as his father did. The others were repelled by his association with _him_ and by his appalling manners. He was a snob and a bully, and he realised with a wrench that that was exactly what his father had intended to make him.

It was his own fault that he had no friends; that he had _never_ had any friends; that the only people who wanted to be near him were the only people that he knew for sure that he couldn't trust. He had made himself that way. That was why he was miserable. After all those years of persuading himself that it was all somebody else's fault, he had realised that it had been his _choice_. He had _chosen_ to become what his father and the Dark Lord had always intended him to become. The realisation was too much. He wanted to scream, he wanted to break things, but more than anything he just wanted to cry. But for him there were no shoulders that he _could_ cry on, nor would there ever be.

Just then, the common room door opened and Fletcher stepped in. Draco looked up, startled, and then his sallow features set into his customary emotionless mask. He could not let anyone, especially not Fletcher, see him at his lowest. He could not have succeeded in looking normal, however, because the Head Boy took one look at his white face and approached the solitary, vulnerable figure.

"You okay, Malfoy?" Daniel knew the words were a waste of time; the boy hated him and would not want his concern or his mostly veiled pity.

He was right.

"It's none of your damned business, Fletcher!" Malfoy snapped, his cold eyes flashing with something close to a genuine emotion. "Meddling little half-blood!"

Daniel let the insult go. He'd heard it many times before, often said with much more conviction, even hatred. He was surprised, not by the outburst, but by what he had seen in the split-second's silence before Malfoy had noticed him. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater and owner of the hardest, coldest heart in Slytherin, was almost on the verge of tears…

**A/N: This is my big attempt at getting you to feel sorry for Malfoy. Did I succeed? Review and let me know!**


	5. Under False Colours

_**Chapter 4: Under false colours**_

"_The people of the world, having once been deceived, suspect deceit in truth itself."_

That one brief encounter changed a lot. Not for Draco Malfoy; it merely intensified the resentment that he felt for Fletcher. But Daniel could not shake the thought of the ice prince sitting alone in a vale of depression. It was against the natural order of things for a Malfoy to feel, he knew. So what was going on? Had Draco been deceiving everyone from the moment he started his first year? There was certainly more there than met the eye.

Daniel was not going to change the way he treated Malfoy. That would have been pointless; the boy did not want or need his pity, and would only have become still more insufferable. But that night had irreversibly changed the way he felt. Try as he might, he _couldn't_ hate Malfoy. Not now he knew that the evil one could cry; now that he had shown that he was human.

"He's hurting, Blaise," he had told his friend the next morning, as they both tried to make sense of what he'd seen.

"Leave him." Blaise was bitter. As a half-blood surrounded by Slytherin snobs, he had passed through self-hatred himself, and he had no pity whatsoever for Draco. "He won't want our help. Even if he _does _need a shoulder to cry on, he won't pick mine, or yours. We aren't _worthy._" He spat the last word out with uncharacteristic venom. "So he's not what we thought he was? Death Eater or not, he's still a bully. I don't see him changing any time soon."

Daniel stared at Blaise. He normally responded to almost everything in monosyllables. Malfoy's pain had struck a nerve with him; that much was plain. Daniel didn't press for reasons. He knew that if you were a good and sympathetic listener people would tell you everything themselves in the end.

Blaise sat silent for a few minutes, his coal black eyes gazing fixedly into the middle distance, not seeing anything. Pain was rising in his eyes. It was old pain that he had banished to the back of his mind long ago, something he had never thought to speak of to anyone. But Daniel was his friend. Blaise knew all about Daniel's own past, about what he had suffered because of insane prejudices. He could trust him.

"He made my life hell." Daniel looked up, startled. He had thought that Blaise was in a sort of trance. He had befriended the younger boy for the last year, but still knew very little about him. He knew that, before they had been friends, Blaise had been almost part of Malfoy's crowd. He didn't know why the half-blood was tolerated, but perhaps it was something to do with the sickeningly grateful expression that always lingered on his face when he made eye contact with any of them. Daniel had only had to look once to know his true feelings; that he hated each and every one of them.

"I'm not going to talk about it," Blaise continued. "Not here." He gestured round at the Great Hall, packed with breakfasting students. And he got up from his seat, oblivious to the fact that he had eaten practically nothing, and stalked out of the Hall. No one turned round to watch him; perhaps no one had noticed him leave. Certainly no one on the Slytherin table would care much about Blaise. He was not a very popular person.

Daniel took a last bite of his honeyed toast, then got up and followed his friend out. _Now _the heads turned; the Head Boy might not be exactly popular, but at least he wasn't a non-entity. He ignored all of them. People staring no longer bothered him. He was used to that by now. It really wasn't his fault that people felt drawn to him. The gift of charisma was sometimes more of a curse than a blessing.

He found Blaise leaning against the wall in the entrance hall, trying to steady his breathing, as if he had just been running. There was a look in his eyes that cut Daniel down to the bone; the look of a puppy that had been kicked one time too many. He had never seen his friend like this before. Perhaps all Slytherins wore some sort of mask to hide their emotions. Malfoy's had slipped last night, and now Blaise's was gone, and Daniel could see him as he was, right down to his poor beaten core.

"As bad as that, eh?" he said, sympathetically, watching and waiting for Blaise to be ready to speak. He knew the boy well enough to know that he wasn't given to exaggeration; and besides, no Slytherin spoke lightly of Hell.

"As bad as that," Blaise echoed, his voice thick with emotion. There was a long silence. Daniel didn't say anything, and at length, he continued, "He thought that it was all that the poor lonely half-blood could want; to be friends with him, to be accepted into the circle. You know me, Dan, I get… _dangerous_ when I'm alone. I thought it would be good for me. It made _him_ feel good. But it tore me up, being _grateful_ to a piece of slimy scum who thought he could buy me with his worthless comradeship.

"If he'd _pitied_ me, I would've despised him for it, but I'd have understood him; it would've proved that he was _human_. But it was all just a bit of fun for them, seeing what the freak in their midst would do next, wanting to make me cringe like a house elf for their amusement. I hated them for what they'd done to me, but I hated myself more for letting them. Once or twice…" he paused and took a deep breath, then went on, "once or twice, I caught myself playing with knife blades, looking for a way out, trying to escape the place where the purebloods hated and humiliated me."

Daniel gasped. He had a shrewd idea what Blaise meant by 'playing'. But he had never even imagined this. Blaise was very reserved, normally, and had never spoken like this before. He had known that his friend hated Malfoy, and now he knew why. No amount of tears from the silver-haired boy, fake or genuine, would convince Zabini that he was anything other than the purest evil.

"God, Blaise," Daniel murmured. "I never knew."

"No one ever knew." Blaise responded with his eyes focused dimly on the past. "No one ever cared. Malfoy _wanted_ to break me. Insulting me never did it, so he thought he'd try cruelty by kindness. Fiendishly clever, isn't he? And now you want me to feel sorry for him. I'm sorry, Dan, I'd do anything else for you, but not that. I can't stop hating Draco Malfoy."

"Even if it was all an act…" Daniel stopped when he saw the pain in his friend's face.

"Worse," he snapped. "If you're going to hurt someone, you might as well _mean_ it!"

Suddenly, his face froze in shock, the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. Daniel looked round and instantly realised why. Draco Malfoy stood there in the doorway to the Great Hall, smiling horribly. He had obviously heard some of what was being said, and it had _pleased_ him. He had enjoyed hearing that he had tortured Blaise. That smile made Daniel feel ill. It just wasn't _natural_.

Malfoy sauntered over, alone, and placed his hand gently on Blaise's shoulder. The shorter boy flinched. "Aw, did I hurt poor little Blaise?" Malfoy asked; a false, cooing, sugary tone in his cold voice. "Did I make him want to _cry_?"

Malfoy had gone too far. Daniel saw the flash of vicious anger in the black eyes an instant before Blaise acted. He threw Malfoy's hand off his shoulder with a force that landed him on his back, on the floor. Before the silver-haired boy could move, there was a wand at his throat. Blaise was faster than he looked.

"You made my life hell, Malfoy," he snarled. "Now give me one good reason why I shouldn't send you there."

There was terror written all over the bully's face now; sheer terror for his life. He only had to look into those eyes to know that Blaise _would_ kill him, if he could. The sheer enmity in his eyes made Draco shiver.

He didn't whimper. He knew that it would only irritate the unhinged Zabini further. Besides, he had no wish to die cringing. "Don't do it, Blaise," he said, quietly. "I know you don't really want to do it. It won't stop you hurting. I never _wanted_ to hurt you." He felt the pressure from the wand slacken slightly as Blaise's resolve weakened. "Would you really become a murderer, just for me?"

"It isn't just you," snapped Blaise. "All you purebloods are the same. And your family is the worst, Malfoy." He spat the name viciously. "Your father… he nearly killed… _her_." Draco could barely hear him now; perhaps he was talking to himself.

"I'm not my father, Blaise." In his indecision, Blaise stared deep into the cold eyes, and saw nothing but truth. He got up, pocketed his wand and stalked off towards the dungeons, leaving Malfoy on his back, on the floor, in the dust, with one thought playing on his mind… who on earth did Zabini mean?

**(A/N: Ah, back to the Malfoy we all know and love so much….)**


	6. Without Wings?

_**Chapter 5: Without wings? **_

"_Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss."_

Douglas Adams (Life, the Universe and Everything)

Draco might not have wondered further about the enigma that was Blaise were it not for the fast approaching Quidditch match; the traditional season-starter between Slytherin and Gryffindor. As Seeker and Captain, the responsibility fell heavily upon his shoulders; if they did not win, it would be his fault. He was nervous, too, though he wouldn't have admitted it for the world. They hadn't won against Gryffindor for too long, and he knew it. It was all because of Potter; they could win if it wasn't for him and his precious Firebolt…

He had a sudden flash of inspiration. He saw, in his mind's eye, that fateful game in second year, when Potter had lunged towards him and he had thought he was being attacked. A plan began to formulate in his mind, a plan that revolved around a single fact: in Quidditch, there could be no substitutes.

He found Blaise Zabini where he expected to find him; in the common room, alone, idly levitating scraps of paper. He felt a twinge of fear; last time he had spoken to the boy, he had ended up inches from death. Although he was certain that Zabini was insane, he _needed_ him. Thoughts of lifting the Quidditch and House Cups flashed across his mind, strengthening his resolve and giving him the courage he needed to approach the lone figure.

He moved quietly, but Blaise sensed his approach, and looked up. A glare from the dark, fathomless eyes was enough to stop Draco in his tracks at five yards. If his mission hadn't seemed so important to him, he would have got away as quickly as possible. Blaise had neither forgiven nor forgotten, one look was enough to tell him that. He could read a terrible murderous intent in those eyes, laying dormant, flickering just beneath the brittle, civilised façade.

"Malfoy." Blaise made the word sound like an insult. "What do you want with me?"

Draco couldn't think of any way that he could say it that would make Blaise any more likely to listen, so he just said:

"I need you for the Quidditch team, Zabini."

The dark boy looked away and resumed his paper charming. "I don't fly, Malfoy. You know that. You know why, too. You can't _possibly_ be that desperate for players that you'd ask me."

Draco did indeed know why Blaise refused to fly. Ever since their third year he had developed a hatred for flying. He was good; he might, with practice, have been better than Draco himself, but since that night in the rainstorm, it would be easier to get Hogwarts itself to fly than to get Blaise Zabini on a broom. Another thing that was his own fault, thought Draco, groaning inwardly. He had ruined his own plan three years ago. There was no chance now. He looked at Blaise's face, curiously, and saw that his left cheek still bore the old scar. Another thing unforgotten, rearing its ugly head in the face of Draco's enthusiasm.

But this was important to him, so he persisted, "You're good, and you know you are. Our new Chasers haven't got a hope. Besides," he lowered his voice, "in a Quidditch player, your temper might not be a disadvantage. Particularly against Gryffindor."

Blaise looked up sharply. "I know what you mean," he said, bluntly. "You won't say it, but I know. You want me to get Potter out of the air, just so that you can win. I won't do it, Malfoy. Winning isn't important to me. Not important enough to conquer my fear – yes, fear, Malfoy – of flying, not important enough to injure someone who's never hurt me, just so you can parade around with the Quidditch Cup. No one likes me, I know. I just don't want to give them a reason to hate me."

Draco knew determination when he saw it. He was about to admit defeat, and had half turned away, when a thought hit him squarely between the eyes. He cursed himself for a fool for never having seen it before.

He spun back round again. "You will fly, Blaise," he hissed. "You'll fly, else the whole school will find out."

Blaise merely snorted. "Find out what, Malfoy?" he threw out the words as a challenge. Draco began to doubt himself. Zabini did not look as if he were harbouring a secret at all. But it was far too good a chance to miss.

"You know what I mean." He saw a flicker of fear, hastily suppressed, which gave him the conviction to continue. "If you don't fly, Zabini, everyone will know"- he lowered his voice – "that you are in love with Ginny Weasley."

There was no doubt about it now. The shocked gasping inrush of air, the stricken look on Blaise's face, though gone in an instant, left no room for denial.

"That's _blackmail_, Malfoy," Blaise said, stunned.

Draco smiled to himself. He had been right. He was always right. He looked up, expecting to see Zabini ready to beg him, expecting to be able to sneer, to tell his hapless victim that he'd brought it all on himself… And then he met Blaise's gaze, and he quailed. There was no pleading there, nor would there ever be. He ought to have realised that giving in to blackmail was not going to be the obvious choice for Blaise. He could feel the enmity and violent intent pouring from the other boy in waves. He was nervous; it seemed he could never get the upper hand.

"You wouldn't dare." It was a statement. Blaise Zabini didn't beg anymore. Malfoy was scared. But he steeled himself. He needed to win that Cup, and for that he needed Blaise.

"I would," he replied, silkily. "You wouldn't dare kill me, Blaise. You wouldn't want to end up in your own private cell, chained to the wall, surrounded by Dementors… and that's assuming the Ministry don't get you first."

Blaise gave in. There was no other way out. He didn't want to become a murderer. He tried one last appeal. "Okay, I'll fly. I'm not about to cripple Potter for you, though. You can do that yourself. I'm not a violent man, Draco. When I attacked you the other day… it took three _years_ to build that much resentment up. I wouldn't be able to hurt Potter. I just wouldn't be able to get angry enough."

"You don't have to get angry, Blaise, just knock him off his bloody broom!" Draco snapped, more loudly than he had intended. It was a good job that the common room was nearly empty. Before the other could reply, he got up, and swept out, pausing once in the doorway to swing round and say, "Think about it, Blaise. What would you rather be: a disgrace, or a hero?" He left and shut the door behind him before Blaise could react.

Not that he could even move. Blaise was rooted to the spot by the stark choice afforded him: face exposure, or commit an act alien to his normally quiet temperament. For he had spoken the truth to Malfoy; he was not a violent man. And he had sworn that he would never fly again after he had been left, broomless and bleeding, fifty feet from the ground, clutching a tree branch. He had known what Malfoy was then, when he had left the Quidditch field with Blaise's broom, laughing. He had known, but like a fool he had not done anything about it. He was frightened, now. He would almost rather face exposure than take part in Malfoy's cheating plans.

Almost.

Ginny Weasley was a pureblood, and he had never been treated with any emotion more friendly than scorn by any pureblood he'd ever met. Added to his association with Malfoy (even if they no longer spoke), he was sure that the Gryffindor would never welcome his attentions, even if she _could_ get over his physical imperfections. There was only one thing for it; Ginny could never know. If it became known… he would die of embarrassment. Not to mention that all those people who had been perfectly happy all these years not to know that he existed would discover him. Blaise didn't mind not being liked. It was being ridiculed that he just couldn't stand.

He sat, frozen, for some time, oblivious to movement around him. No one bothered him. They were used to his strange moods, and his trance-like states which could last for hours. He was brought back to himself by Daniel Fletcher, the only one, seemingly, who cared enough to check that he was still alive.

"What's up, Blaise? You haven't moved since I saw you last," there was concern written all over his face, most probably genuine.

"I have to fly in the match on Saturday," Blaise croaked.

"You? Fly?" Daniel snorted. "I'd like to see the person who tries to make you!"

"Malfoy came to me today," said Blaise, so quietly that Daniel had to lower his ear slightly to catch the words. "He threatened me. If I don't play, and if I don't somehow disable Potter, he'll tell everyone how I feel about… _her._" He couldn't say her name. Somehow it seemed like an insult to her. And you could never tell who might be listening to your conversation in the Slytherin common room.

"So?" Daniel was nothing if not practical. "Blaise, you're overreacting. Let Malfoy say what he wants. It's his fault that you're scared of flying, so it's hard luck if he needs you. It doesn't matter if he _does_ tell everyone. He's going to anyway; he just wants to dangle it over your head for a few weeks more. And once it's out in the open you can always deny it."

Relief flooded Blaise's troubled mind. He was not good at thinking in an emotional crisis. He was better at dealing with bigger problems. Malfoy's blackmail had been enough to throw him into a panic. Now Daniel was here, it was all going to be alright. Except…

"If she asks me, I won't be able to deny it, Dan."

Daniel was suddenly seized by an idea, and a large grin was creeping over his tanned face. "Maybe Malfoy won't be telling everyone after all," he said, in a wickedly innocent tone.

"What's on your mind?" Blaise asked, suspicion creeping in.

"Don't worry your pretty head about it," smirked Daniel. "If I get you out of flying, promise you'll ask no questions?"

"Promise," Blaise muttered, reluctantly.

He never did find out exactly how his friend charmed (or threatened) Draco into dropping the blackmail. All he knew was that, later that day, Malfoy sidled up, and said:

"Forget what I said earlier, Blaise. I'm sorry."

And if Blaise hadn't known better, he would have thought that the silver-haired snob actually _meant_ it. Added to the satisfaction of an apology from Draco, and the relief at his secret remaining a secret, Blaise had the considerable perverse pleasure of seeing Gryffindor steamroller Slytherin, by 350 points to ninety.

**(A/N: This chapter's been a long time coming, I know. They're all written up and ready, but I don't want to get ahead of myself, since I'm posting all of this on the official Harry Potter site under fan fiction. If you want to preview Chapter 6, then it's being posted bit by bit on there. If you're out there, and you're reading this, please Review. It makes me happy. But no flames, please.)**


	7. Meetings and Morality

**A/N: Thanks to Cuaglar for being my first reviewer on this story. Also thanks to Rowena (outofivanhoe), Tammy (countrygirl25), Frannypants, Desiree K Troy and Breanna Senese for reviewing my one shots. All comments are welcomed and advice taken on board.**

_**Chapter Six: Meetings and Morality**_

"_Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something."_

Henry David Thoreau

Amongst the celebrating students sat a girl with pale brown eyes, staring pensively into the fire. It was not that she was not happy about the result, merely that she was tired. It had been her first match as a Chaser, and it was harder work than it looked. People, particularly her brother, tugged on her arm occasionally to try and get her to try this drink, or join in with this song, and she would oblige them quietly, and then return to her relaxed state of relieved fatigue.

She was a remarkable girl. As the adult swan so little resembles the 'ugly duckling' from which it grows, so this fifth year was markedly different from the little girl who had first walked through the castle doors. Almost no one in Gryffindor had noticed it, because they saw her every day, but she was a pretty girl now, in some lights almost beautiful, with her lion's mane of rich, red hair cascading down her back. It was little wonder that she had poor Blaise mesmerised.

Ginny Weasley was thinking about him, too, though she did not know it. His name would draw a complete blank with her, but she was thinking about him, the odd Slytherin boy who had seemed _happy_ that his team had lost. She might not even have seen him had she not gone into a fifty foot dive to catch the plummeting Quaffle. Once she had caught it and passed it on to the next Chaser, she found herself just in front of the Slytherin stands when the crowd erupted. Just before she pivoted back to see Harry clutching the weakly struggling Snitch, she had caught sight of a small, thin, dark boy like a shadow, with a small but definite smile playing over his chiselled features.

She had felt puzzled only for a moment, and then she was swept off into the team celebrations. The thrill of victory passed through her small body, making her feel light headed, and as the team shot off for a victory lap of the pitch, she forgot all about the mysterious dark haired boy in the stands. She was far too busy clinging on to her broom, for fear that the raging winds would blow her off as she blazed off in pursuit of her jubilant team mates.

She had no chance to think about him now, either. Finally tiring of his sister being boring, Ron seized her firmly by the wrist and tugged her from her refuge in the armchair.

"C'mon, Gin, don't you care that we've won?" he half-shouted. The word 'won' provoked the other Gryffindors present to erupt into cheering. By this time, anyone who was not interested in Quidditch had left the common room. Hermione, for example, had fled to the library as soon as she had noticed that the team were preparing to make a night of it. Had she not been a team member, Ginny would probably have followed her.

"Of course I care, Ron," she said, smiling. She didn't justify herself or plead tiredness. Faced with the sheer joy on Ron's face, that would have been cruel. She stood up and went to join the rest of the team, settling down to an evening of Butterbeer and song, but longing only for the oblivion of sleep.

Down in the underbelly of the school's dungeons, in the Slytherin common room, Blaise sat alone in the semi-darkness, his face occasionally illuminated by the fire and the flickering lamps. The other Slytherins had retired early, depressed by yet another Quidditch defeat. Draco Malfoy had been visibly boiling with rage every time he looked in Blaise's direction. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that crossing Malfoy had not been wise, but his elation of keeping his secret and his sanity flooded out all lesser emotions.

There was one very slight discord in his happiness and that was that Daniel was nowhere to be found. Not that it worried Blaise particularly; his friend was, after all, Head Boy, and was probably needed for something far more important. Solitude had never particularly frightened him anyway; he was perfectly happy to sit alone in a comfortable chair and slumber. Far happier than he would have been to descend the stairs and share a dormitory with the murderous-looking Malfoy…

It was not until the next morning that Ginny Weasley remembered the odd-looking dark boy, and that was because she saw him in the corridor on her way to Charms. When she did see him, she completely forgot herself and shouted:

"Hey, you!"

Blaise Zabini cursed whichever malevolent God had made the stupid vixen notice him… until he turned and he saw her. He met her eyes and an involuntary shiver passed the whole length of his slender frame.

"Yes?" He tried not to sound bothered, and was pleased with the air of detachment that he managed to achieve.

She drew closer and lowered her voice. The boy would not thank her if other members of his house heard what she was about to say. "You… you're the one I saw in the stands at the end of the game. You were smiling when Slytherin lost. Why?"

It took all of five seconds for Blaise to decide to tell her. It was the first chance he'd had of proper conversation with her. "Oh, because I hate Draco Malfoy," he replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone. "And because he tried to blackmail me into playing Chaser for the sole purpose of knocking Harry Potter out of the air. It just seemed just that he should lose so badly. It was a personal victory."

Ginny was shocked. "That's cheating!" she said, scandalised. "You wouldn't have done it?" she asked, hurriedly.

"Me?" Blaise snorted. "I don't fly. Not since third year." As he spoke, his hand strayed involuntarily to the small scar on his cheek. Ginny's heart swelled with compassion for him, and she wondered what painful event in the boy's past linked the scar with flying. There was something mesmerising about Blaise, perhaps his uniqueness; he was enigmatic, and Ginny felt a sudden conviction that she could talk to him forever and not know everything.

He was not at all attractive in the conventional sense. His small nose was slightly crooked about halfway down, and his black eyes were a little too close together, not to mention that he was so slight in build as to be insubstantial. But there was definitely something about him. What that something was, Ginny couldn't tell, but she was inexplicably drawn to the older boy.

He was different from Daniel Fletcher, who was enchanting – there was a reason why all of the girls were mad about him. There was something about the way he spoke that made you want to listen; something about the way he listened that made you want to tell him everything. Other people might fall under that spell, but not Ginny Weasley. She had done just that in her first year, and she had vowed that she would never make that mistake again.

There had been an awkward silence, but then Blaise continued, "You fly. You play Chaser for Gryffindor. I saw you. You're good." Ginny flushed slightly at the praise, even though it came from a Slytherin.

"Thanks," she spluttered. She felt an overwhelming need to know this unusual boy's name, so she held out her little white hand to him, saying, "The name's Ginevra Weasley. They call me Ginny."

Blaise hesitated for a moment, and then took her hand delicately in his. "I might have guessed that you were a Weasley," he said, smiling, "what with that red hair and the Quidditch skills." He was rewarded by seeing Ginny colour slightly again. "I'm Blaise Zabini. No one calls me anything, because no one knows who I am." His dark eyes were filled with sadness, and again Ginny felt sorry for him. Why did no one know the boy? As far as she could tell, there was nothing wrong with him. She felt almost guilty for walking away from him. But she felt better when she turned her head back and saw him smiling.

"And so she said, 'That's cheating!' like that was the worst thing anyone could ever do!" Blaise was telling Daniel later. "I wasn't concerned with the cheating. I was more worried about the blackmail, and having to fly!"

"It's all to do with your point of view," said Daniel, quietly. "Ginny's a Gryffindor; they believe in chivalry and that sort of thing. Cheating's against their ethics. You, however, are a self-centred little Slytherin, and you were worried about blackmail because that was the thing that would injure you the most. That's why people like you and me and Malfoy are Slytherins. We look out for number one. Gryffindors think they can protect the world."

"Ah, House ethics," murmured Blaise, as if the whole world could be explained in those two words. "'The fool says: better the devil you know. The wise man says: better know no devil.' That sort of thing."

"You're heading into morals there, Blaise," cautioned Daniel, smiling as he said it. "Not a place it's safe to go whilst sitting in the Slytherin common room."

"But seriously, Dan," Blaise asked, suddenly, "is it even possible that she could do anything except hate me? I could see it in her eyes. The Gryffindor in her kept saying: he's a Slytherin. Don't trust him. Hell, I don't even trust myself sometimes. Especially when there're sharp objects about," he concluded, darkly. "And some of the rest of the time, she looked as if she felt sorry for me. Why is it that people think that their pity can _help_ you when you're miserable? They can't, and I really wish that they'd just stop trying."

"What do you want, Blaise?" Daniel posed the question in deadly seriousness. "She can't help feeling sorry for you if she thinks you've suffered. She wants to understand you. Do you want her, or do you want some creature that you've invented that just happens to have her pretty face?"

Blaise snapped, "I want her. I just don't want her to try and understand me. I don't understand myself. But, Dan, what I wouldn't give to be like her; to care about other people, to have a heart, to feel sorry for someone else for a change. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself. But I'll never get her, and I'll never change. That's why I'm in Slytherin. I just don't care enough to be a hero."

Daniel looked up and said. "We can't all be heroes like Potter, Blaise. Besides: every man is a hero to somebody."

"Emerson," stated Blaise flatly, mechanically. "Oh, I hate her, Dan. I never wanted anything before I saw her, except to be left alone. And now I want to be worthy of her, but I never can, because every step of the way, Harry Potter is there, playing the hero, reminding her and me of what I am not, and what I never can be."

"Never say never, Blaise," replied Daniel, enigmatically. "People do change. You just said yourself that you were different before you saw her. And if you do want to be a hero, wipe that sullen look off your face. A true hero never sulks, even when inches from death. She's that sort of girl, Blaise. You could die for her, but if you looked sour whilst you were doing it, she'd remember you as 'that funny looking boy who sulked all the time'."

"At least she'd remember me," said Blaise, dreamily.

Daniel rolled his eyes. "That's not the attitude to have, Blaise." His friend seemed pretty far gone. Although it was a very un-Slytherin thought to have, perhaps Blaise _would_ die for Ginny Weasley, if the situation ever arose. But surely that wouldn't matter, for he would never have the chance.


	8. Halloween

_**Chapter 7: Halloween**_

_**In which Blaise has the opportunity to avert a murder**_

"_Hindsight is always twenty-twenty."_

Billy Wilder

During October, the Halloween feast was a topic of great interest. Only first and second years could admit to that interest without losing face, but the whole school needed something to shake away the morbid thoughts of Death Eaters once again on the prowl, and Double Potions with Snape. The Heads and Prefects were involved quite heavily in the organisation of the occasion, to be marked by a feast followed by a ball that had actually turned out to be rather like a disco.

Blaise only knew all of this from Daniel. He was jealous; apparently Ginny was a Gryffindor prefect – silly, he knew she was, didn't he know all he could know about her simply from looking? – and he would have sacrificed a lot to get to sit in on those working party sessions. There seemed to be an awful lot of them. Daniel never seemed to be around any more. Was it really possible that organising a feast – something that the teachers had always done themselves before – could take up so much of the Head Boy's time?

Naturally, Draco Malfoy appeared to think that the whole thing was beneath him. If he doesn't want to go, then that's alright with me, thought Blaise, grimly. He wouldn't miss the sneering presence of the younger Malfoy one little bit. He tore a piece of parchment into tiny little shreds, idly thinking about Ginny. She'd be there, of course. It wouldn't be like her to avoid a party. Blaise would hate every minute of it, but he would be there, partly to support Dan, but mostly just to see her.

Harry didn't much like Halloween. It had been at Halloween that the troll had got into the school and attacked Hermione; it had also been at Halloween that the first attack was made by the basilisk in his second year. Come to think of it, when Sirius had attacked the Fat Lady; that had been after the Halloween feast. And his name had been pulled unbidden from the infernal goblet on the last day of October. Bad things seemed to happen at that time of year.

He was putting on a brave face at the moment, and trying to fight off his premonitions that something, somewhere, was going to go horribly wrong. His scar was hurting again, a tense, dull ache that was somehow worse than its occasional lightning flashes of pain. The Dark Lord was planning something. He could feel it. And he knew that that something would have serious consequences for the whole school.

Unfortunately, that was all he knew. Voldemort knew now that Harry could divine his feelings through the old scar that connected them. He wasn't going to allow Harry to see visions of his plans any more, not if he could help it. The young Gryffindor felt a sort of impotent rage against fate. When he _needed_ to know what the Dark Lord was thinking, the connection was suddenly, irreversibly, gone.

He pushed the thoughts away. Knowing Voldemort as he did, these feelings could mean nothing good. He looked anxiously across the common room at the people he cared about most. Ron, Hermione and Ginny… he hoped that being close to him would not endanger them. He was brought back from his morbid daydream by the fact that Ginny and Ron appeared to be arguing.

Harry went over to them. Ron wasn't yelling, but judging by his red ears, he wanted to be. They turned when they heard him approach, each bursting with what they needed to say, but both silenced by the look in Harry's eyes.

He shook his head, wearily, and turned to the one person he knew would tell him the truth. "What's going on, Hermione?"

The girl looked from one warring Weasley to the other. "Ron thinks Ginny's got a new boyfriend…"

"I _think_!" hissed Ron. "I bloody saw them!"

"Yes, Ron, you saw her _talking_ to him. Ginny says that's all she did do. I believe her. There's no reason why she can't have friends in other houses, you know."

"Hermione!" wailed Ginny. "He's not even my _friend_. He's just a boy I was talking to. I didn't think it was important, that's why I didn't say anything to you about him, Ron. I wasn't trying to hide anything from you, honest!"

"Hermione, who is this _him_?" Harry asked, finally, exasperated by the argument that was just beyond his comprehension.

She hesitated. That in itself annoyed him. Hermione couldn't think that Harry would take this worse than Ron, could she? When she spoke, he could barely hear what she said. "Blaise Zabini."

Harry was puzzled for a moment. "Who?" Then realisation dawned. "Is he little and dark, and does he spend most of his time sitting alone in corners? I think I know him. He should be every teacher's pet; I've never heard him put a foot wrong."

Hermione nodded, though looking slightly disgruntled at his description of Zabini as a teacher's pet. Ron snapped. "You're missing the point, Harry. This Blaise guy is a Slytherin. He's one of Malfoy's friends!"

"He's not," said Ginny, stubbornly. "He hates Malfoy. He told me so. And I've only spoken to him twice; once a couple of weeks ago, the day after the Quidditch, and then today. If you'd given me a chance to speak, _Ron_, I might have told you that. And there'd be nothing wrong with me being his friend anyway. He doesn't have very many. Some people say that Daniel Fletcher is his only friend."

"If no one likes him, it must be for a reason," persisted Ron, but he was on his own now.

Hermione's eyes had gone round like saucers. "He knows the Head Boy? That man is just perfect." She looked like she had entered a daydream, probably consisting of her, Fletcher, and the next Hogsmeade weekend.

"Oh, please, Hermione," sighed Ron, blocking his ears irritably. Harry looked at his friend and wondered if there might be a little jealousy behind the gesture. He wouldn't ask, though. He would never ask. Ron would tell him in his own good time. Providing, of course, that there was something to tell. Ginny, noticing that no one was paying any attention to her any more, ducked quickly out of the common room and headed to the library.

The night of October 31st was cloudy and moonless. The Hall was decked out for the feast, and the Head Boy and Girl, along with the eight prefects, surveyed their handiwork. Ginny felt enchanted. The decoration was perfect. Distrustful as she might be of Fletcher, he still knew how to set the scene for a great party. It was he who had persuaded Dumbledore to make the "ball" more informal. In Ginny's eyes, this was a good thing. Dress robes made her feel uncomfortable. She was always far happier in her favourite scruffy jeans.

Scruffy jeans were laid out in piles upon Blaise Zabini's bed. He had many pairs, mostly because, back home, they were practically all he ever wore. He chose a black pair. Informal though the party undoubtedly was going to be (and all thanks to Dan) he didn't want to look like a rejected street orphan. He was standing there, shirtless and just fastening the jeans, when Draco Malfoy came in.

"Are you really going like that, Zabini?" he asked, haughtily.

"No, Malfoy, I was thinking of putting a shirt on before I go down to the feast," Blaise replied, evenly, trying to keep the conversation as light as possible, just in case anything said made him want to kill Malfoy all over again.

"I meant, are you really going to go looking so…" he looked Blaise up and down in a way that suggested disgust, "shabby," he finished, his eyes fixed on the ragged ends of the trouser legs, his lip curling, as if he thought he might catch some disease from them. Blaise felt slightly inadequate standing half naked in front of Malfoy. Probably because the other boy played Quidditch, and had a well muscled body, while he was skinny and his slight frame noticeably devoid of any muscle tone.

"Go to hell, Malfoy," Blaise replied, in much the same tone as before, and was rewarded by seeing the silver haired boy flinch. Obviously the memory of the wand at his throat was still fresh in his mind. Malfoy just sneered and turned away, leaving Blaise to make the serious decision about which of his shirts he should wear. There wasn't much of a choice: black, grey and green made up the most part of his non-denim wardrobe. He selected a simple Slytherin green, and tried his hardest to ignore Malfoy's physical superiority, currently being flaunted only ten feet away.

Eating was a great way to relieve tension, and Harry for one was glad to tuck into the mountains of food provided at one of the greatest feasts of the year. The atmosphere was much more peaceful, and Ron had apologised to Ginny, although he did keep shooting evil looks at a dark haired Slytherin whom Harry assumed to be Zabini. He wasn't really thinking about any of that; he had more important things on his troubled mind. From the way he had been feeling, he was too pessimistic to imagine that the Feast would come to an end without something terrible happening.

Ginny sighed deeply. Was she the only girl in the school not to be madly in love with the 'gorgeous' Head Boy? She looked him over, as she had done many times, and snorted. He wasn't even that good-looking! All he had on his side was charm, and she instinctively distrusted charm. The teenaged Tom Riddle had been quite charming, as she knew only too well. And hadn't Riddle also been a Head Boy in his time?

Blaise saw Ginny looking in his direction, but he had no illusions about who she was truly looking at. Daniel came first in the minds of the ladies, he knew that. His friend looked distinctly uncomfortable under all those lustful gazes, but Blaise didn't feel sorry for him at all, because it looked as if he could have Ginny Weasley, if he so wished, whereas Blaise could wish for ever, and never have her.

Daniel felt nervous. It was an important night. He had planned what he was about to do, and he was fairly confident in himself and his own ability, but that didn't comfort him now. People, after all, were independent creatures. He couldn't count on anyone's reactions, not even hers. Anything could go wrong, even now. Being the most charming boy in school doesn't necessarily inoculate you against failure.

Harry was a little surprised that they were allowed to finish eating in peace. But then, a disco would be a far better place to cause havoc, if that was indeed what Voldemort had intended. He could easily have been wrong. But somehow, Harry didn't think so…

Ginny and Ron were arguing again. It seemed that Ron had not forgotten the discussion they had had earlier, and was cautioning his sister. Even Harry, who loved Ron like a brother, thought that he was going a little too far. It wasn't as if she had befriended Draco Malfoy, for heaven's sake! He agreed with Ginny. It wasn't her brother's place to lecture her about whom she could and couldn't have as friends.

Ginny pulled away from her brother. "You're so pigheaded, Ronald Weasley!" she snapped. "I'll do what I like. You can't stop me from having friends that you don't like. If I want to go over there and talk to Blaise and Daniel, I will. What's so wrong with Blaise? You like Daniel fine enough, you and Harry, and he's a Slytherin too, you know." She stopped, colouring slightly as she realised two things. Firstly she had been talking far too loud. Second, she sounded like an over-sensitive girlfriend.

"Defending him now, are you?" glowered Ron. Ginny shot a look at him that would have made a weaker man tremble, then seized a surprised Hermione's hand and all but dragged her across the cleared Hall to where the Head Boy was standing with Blaise Zabini. Female eyes watched the two girls like hawks as they crossed the space between themselves and the much-desired Fletcher.

Daniel looked up, and when he saw Ginny, his eyes lit up. Ginny would have been flattered if she didn't know that it was all part of the charm; he looked the same way at every girl he knew. Blaise felt his pulse rate shoot up into the high nineties at the sight of her. Was it possible that she could be coming over to see _him_? But no, he decided, it was probably to see the handsome Head Boy that she came. For a moment, Blaise felt intensely envious of his only friend.

Ginny had her long hair down, flowing all the way to the waistband of her faded jeans. Blaise had to force himself to take his eyes off her. The sharp-eyed Hermione might have seen his secret, had her eyes not been occupied with staring at Daniel, but Ginny was far too modest to imagine that anyone could find her attractive. So she didn't notice the raw emotion smouldering in the midnight black eyes, and couldn't know what Blaise was feeling.

She stopped in front of him and smiled. "Hi Dan, hi Blaise," she said, brightly. "This is my friend Hermione, Dan; she's the cleverest girl in school. She wanted to meet you, so I brought her over," she concluded, wickedly, ignoring Hermione's obvious embarrassment. Then, eager to wreak her revenge on Ron, she turned to the other boy. "Blaise, do you want to dance?"

It was better than he could have hoped. He hated dancing. But if Ginny Weasley had asked him to turn cartwheels down a corridor he would have tried. There was only one thing in the world that he wouldn't do for anyone, and that was getting back on a broom. He nodded, dumbly. He seemed to have lost the power of speech. She laughed, reached down and took his hand, leaving him tingling from the skin contact, and led him out into the middle of the Hall. From the sidelines, Ron glared angrily, hating the boy who held his little sister.

_Later: _

"Won't you come with me?" the girl persisted. "A lady needs an escort."

God, she was so ridiculous. She had to be desperate. Blaise just wanted to snigger, but the Gryffindor within stopped him from laughing in the face of a lady. He couldn't go, though. He didn't need to give Draco Malfoy a chance to catch him skulking around in the bushes with a fourteen year old girl.

Blaise lifted his head slightly, and unaware that his words would have a profound effect on the girl's life, said: "I'm sorry," as politely as he could, and then turned away, so he would not have to see the disappointment in her face, or watch her walk, alone, out of the Hall, and into the night. Her last walk. Had he known would he have let her go?

**A/N: Thanks to Imprisoned, duj and me'shell for reviews on Chapter 6. Duj, I know that Sirius Black was in Gryffindor now, but when I wrote Chapter 1 I didn't. Someone pointed it out to me, but I just forgot to change it. I don't think it matters that much, but I do check the Lexicon now, to try and make sure that I keep it accurate for the other characters. I do try to avoid going OoC!**


	9. In which a murder is discovered

**_Chapter 8: In which a murder is discovered_**

"_Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,_

_The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;_

_Invades the sacred hour of silent rest_

_And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast."_

Samuel Johnson.

It was dark, but then it was night, and the moon was not to be seen. The murder that Blaise could have prevented, had he only known, had yet to be discovered. The girl lay dead, a glance would be enough to tell even a casual observer that, but there was not a mark upon her still warm body. No human soul was around to see her, but someone watched her nevertheless. Her murderer stood, staring down upon her body, with a curious, unnatural smile forming on an unnaturally impassive face.

This would cause waves in the wizarding world. A student cut down on Hogwarts grounds, not a hundred yards away from Dumbledore himself; this was bound to make the news. Especially since this girl was not simply any student. Oh, no; his master had chosen well. At a single stroke, it would be brought home to the school, the Ministry and the world in general, that the Dark Lord was back with a vengeance.

He watched her silently for some minutes, as if afraid that, because he had killed her without a sound, she was not truly dead. He knew she was gone; he simply stared at her empty shell because he found the inactivity peaceful. In life she had been beautiful, though not quite fifteen. Had his plan not required a swift, silent kill, he might have delayed the death stroke for a while, to give him time to get to know his victim better…

The Dark Mark on his arm throbbed, reminding him of his duty. He must not get caught. He must leave the scene before anyone noticed what had happened. If he was caught here like this, he would be as good as dead. And so, reluctantly, the murderer slipped away from the scene of the crime, to be lost in the wreaths of mist that now obscured the castle from view.

Blaise Zabini was extremely bored. He hated this sort of party. He had enjoyed the fifteen minutes that Ginny Weasley had seen fit to devote entirely to him, but he had barely seen her since. Daniel, too, was stubbornly missing. He felt a little awkward and out of place. He cursed his best friend for leaving him alone in just the sort of situation he detested. He thought he caught sight of Daniel surrounded by his fan club, but even the thought of all those girls devoted to his friend made him angry. He decided to go outside to cool down.

It was not as cold as he had been expecting. It was pitch dark, though, and he was having considerable trouble finding his way. It was not late enough in the party for there to be couples out here, hiding in the bushes, but Blaise trod carefully nonetheless. The fog made it very hard to see, and as he rounded a corner, he tripped headlong over something disturbingly soft, lying in the path. He fell heavily, and rolled over, slightly winded.

He could see a dark shape, mysterious amongst the fog tendrils. He was seized with curiosity, and at the same time with a deep sense of dread. He reached into his inside pocket for his wand. Drawing it, he leant towards the shape and breathed:

"_Lumos._"

The world erupted in white light, making Blaise wince and close his eyes. He was not prepared for what he would see when he opened them. The girl's body lay perfectly still. He did not have to touch her to know that she was dead. He had stared on death before. Her face was fixed in a look of sheer terror. She had known she was going to die. But that was not the worst thing. He recognised her. She was the irritating fourth year who had been pestering him earlier.

He was shocked. Guilt flooded through him momentarily. If he had only gone with her, she might still be alive. Then the Slytherin shook his head, vigorously. That was a stupid thought to have. Had he gone with her, there would have been two bodies instead of one. He had no illusions about her death. It was murder, pure and simple, and probably on the orders of the Dark Lord. No Death Eater would have qualms about killing another innocent victim.

He had to raise the alarm. He felt terrible about this, but if someone saw him come in and say nothing about it, then he would be an obvious suspect. He didn't want everyone to know him as 'the boy who found the body.' He had also heard Ginny arguing with her brother Ron about him earlier, and knew that this would certainly not stand in his favour. He was bound to be suspected, if not by Dumbledore, by the other students. He was a Slytherin, and to a lot of people, that implied Death Eater.

Harry could not enjoy himself. He felt far too uneasy. Ron and Hermione were unworried by any of this; he hadn't told them. He couldn't tell anyone, now, because his scar hurting was perfectly normal. No one would take his premonition seriously, especially after his Divination OWL debacle. His eyes flickered restlessly around the Hall. Ron and Hermione were dancing, but he didn't feel in a partying mood.

Just then, a movement caught his eye. The Zabini boy half ran, half skidded into the Hall, eyes wide, sides heaving. No one except Harry had noticed him, until he opened his mouth, and breathlessly shouted:

"The Death Eaters have been here!"

The music stopped with a jolt, and as one being, everyone in the room turned to look at the sixth year, who coloured slightly at the attention.

"Explain yourself, Mr Zabini," hissed Snape, who had reluctantly been pressed into supervising the party.

Blaise's breathing had returned to normal. As calmly as he could, he raised his head to meet the teacher's dark, blank, tunnel-like eyes, and said: "There's been a murder, sir." A few people screamed, and the humming sound of a million whispers filled the enormous room.

"Silence!" shouted Snape. The noises all stopped. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of him at that particular moment, not even Draco Malfoy. "You have found a body, Mr Zabini?" Blaise nodded. "Show me."

"With all respect, Professor," said Dumbledore, who had been listening to the exchange and now took charge, "you and the other heads of house should take your students to the common rooms. I shall go with Mr Zabini and examine the body." He lowered his voice so that only Snape could hear. "Tell them to remain calm. If I know students, they won't, but we have to try. We'll just try and find out all we can as soon as possible."

Snape looked poisonous. "It's Blaise's fault, sir," he muttered, darkly. "He shouldn't have come barging in here like that, screaming for all to hear that someone was dead. And bringing the Death Eaters into it seems to me to be unnecessarily dramatic. I don't think that making assumptions like that is really wise."

Dumbledore smiled. "I have a great respect for the boy's intelligence, Severus. He has a way of seeing the truth that many others do not. I am afraid – and so are you – that this is indeed the work of Lord Voldemort." Snape winced. "And do not blame Blaise for breaking the news so badly. Finding the body of a fellow student must have shocked him. I am glad that he trusted us enough to come in here and tell us. I shall go with him now, and then I will call for the Minister. Murder is murder, even on Hogwarts ground, and Fudge must be informed."

Snape had nothing further to say. He merely swished off to supervise the Slytherins to their common room. Blaise stood alone, slightly to one side, being stared at by most of the students who passed. It was no surprise to Dumbledore that the boy hated their attention; he had observed most of the students at one time or other, and, like everyone else who knew Blaise, knew him to be exceptionally retiring. But only Dumbledore and Blaise himself knew why.

The Headmaster stepped over to join him. "Are you feeling alright, Blaise?" he asked, quietly. Blaise nodded, not trusting himself to speak out loud. "Take me to where you found the body." They began to walk, out of the Hall, out of the castle entirely, and into the night. "Do you know who it is?"

"I don't know her name, but I've seen her before." Blaise faltered. "She asked me to go with her on a walk outside, and I didn't want to. She walked away. I never saw her again, alive. It was frightening to see her dead. I felt guilty, almost as if I'd somehow caused her death."

"If she has indeed been murdered, then it is only the murderer who is to blame," said Dumbledore, seriously. "Innocent people should never blame themselves, Blaise. Never." Blaise looked up, startled, but said nothing.

They walked on in silence. Blaise concentrated hard on retracing his steps, to the extent that he very nearly tripped over her still form again. He extended his lit wand to illuminate the figure. He felt seized with a horrible numbed shock. It frightened him, he who had longed for death many times in the depths of his despair, to see the total stillness, the absent negativity that it truly was. He drew in a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

Dumbledore noticed the intake of breath, and felt relief. So long as the boy could feel an emotion in the face of death, he was satisfied. He looked down at the unmarked body himself, and his face became very grim. She was so young, and it had definitely been the Unforgivable that had killed her. This was murder. He had seen enough murder victims to know that. His eyes scanned over her face. It seemed so familiar…

Suddenly he realised who it was, and an exclamation escaped his lips before he could think. Blaise turned to look at him, surprised by the change in his Headmaster.

"What is it, sir?" he asked, looking at the girl and then into Dumbledore's eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, the old man had recognised this victim. "Do you know her?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't know her, but I know who she is. She's Leonora Fudge – the Minister for Magic's niece."

**A/N: Hope it's not disappointing, who the murder victim is. Did you expect me to kill off a main character halfway through the story? Yeah, we're about halfway through now, got Chapters 9-14 and the Epilogue to go, so don't give up just yet!**


	10. Obsessions

_**Chapter 9: Obsessions**_

"_It is by not always thinking of yourself, if you can manage it, that you might somehow be happy. Until you make room in your life for someone as important to you as yourself, you will always be searching and lost…" _

Richard Bach (The Bridge Across Forever)

The silence tormented him. Blaise had always loved silence and solitude before, preferring his own thoughts to other people's words. But now his only thoughts were troubling him. He couldn't sleep. Finding that girl, Leonora, dead such a short time after talking to her had shaken him up inside. No one wanted to talk to him about it. They were so tactful that it was almost painful. Couldn't anyone understand that he _wanted_ to talk about it? That it might actually help him if they listened to what he had to say? Daniel might have understood, but once again he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably with a girl, thought Blaise, bitterly.

He hated himself for being jealous. It was highly unlikely that he was with Ginny; Daniel knew how he felt. He could have practically any girl he wanted, so why would he pick Ginny? He wasn't malicious enough to try and break his best friend's heart. Blaise wished he could stop thinking about Ginny, but he couldn't. Not after that dance at the Halloween party, when she had let him hold her, and for an instant had stared so deep into his eyes that he thought she had surely seen his soul. That had made him shiver, but her response to that had been to draw him even closer, as if she imagined that he was cold.

He leant back in the armchair, knocking his head against the high back. This was even worse. All he could think about was death, or living torment. He didn't know what made him feel worse: thinking about the murder victim, or finding himself incapable of doing so. When Ginny absorbed his thoughts, and he forgot the poor, innocent girl that he had sent to her death, he felt terribly guilty. It wasn't a feeling he was used to. He was finally feeling sorry for someone other than himself, and found that he didn't like it one little bit.

Ginny pulled the gold-trimmed red quilt up to her chin, and shivered. Murder was not something she had ever envisaged could happen at Hogwarts. How had they _dared_ to slip into the school grounds and kill a girl under Dumbledore's nose? And even more curiously, had they been aiming to kill that particular girl, or would anyone have done? If she had stepped outside for air, would she have met her end? Something Blaise had let slip today made her think that the dead girl had been specially chosen, but he would not say why.

She pushed the thought of the white corpse away – she had not seen it, but it seemed to haunt her thoughts anyway – and thought about Blaise instead. People were still leaving him alone now, but they left him alone in a different way. Whilst before it had been because of their complete indifference, or because they had no idea who he was, now it was intentional. People were studiously avoiding him, and she could see that it hurt him, although he had never told her so.

It was funny, she thought, that she should think about him as much as she did. After all, she had only danced with him at Halloween to annoy Ron, and she had only continued to be friends with him partly for the same reason, and partly because she felt so sorry for him, finding a dead body and then being treated as if it was his fault. But when she was with him, she felt that same strange drawing force as she had when they had met. It worried her. The last thing that she wanted was to fall in love with a Slytherin.

Harry had looked very grim since Halloween. There were rumours flying about that the Dark Lord was going to come to Hogwarts to find him. It would be an audacious move; the only person he had ever feared, and the only person who could defeat him were both to be found at the school. True or not, though, the stories were disturbing. Ginny didn't know whether she should believe them or not, but if Harry was worried, it was surely best for her to be on her guard.

Ron was still not really speaking to her. He was convinced that she was seeing Blaise, and she had stopped arguing about it. It made her feel like she was insulting the boy, and anyway, Ron was not going to believe her. She could practically hear him grinding his teeth whenever she spoke with Blaise while he was near. She was not intimidated by her brother. If anything it made her more determined to keep her new friend. Ginny wriggled slightly, and then settled in a curled position, closing her eyes and hoping that thinking of Blaise would help her to sleep…

Draco Malfoy had just entered the Slytherin common room, and Blaise was watching him, carefully. The reason he was following Malfoy with his eyes was because he was worried. The room was almost empty. It was never very full. And because there was hardly anyone else there, he was worried that Malfoy might pick on him, simply to amuse himself. Blaise didn't care what Daniel thought. Malfoy might not be evil, but he was _cruel_.

His heart sank when Malfoy crossed the room to sit in the armchair that was roughly facing Blaise's. Even the image of Ginny defending him could not lift his spirits at that moment in time. But there was something different about Malfoy, he noticed. The other boy wasn't smirking, or sneering. That _had_ to be a first, thought Blaise, numbly, just staring at the silver-haired youth in the green padded chair.

Draco was tired. He was also scared. He knew what was about to happen, and he knew what his father had planned for him. He didn't want to do it. He had never wanted to be evil. Looking into Blaise's infinitely deep, dark eyes, he could see that the wraith-like boy did not want him there. He was uncomfortable around Draco and he had every right to be. But Draco felt something he had never felt before in his life, and that was guilt. Was being a half-blood really enough to condemn a man to barbed words and emotional torment?

Blaise saw the self-doubt in Malfoy's eyes. He would give anything to know what was running through that aristocratic head. Had Daniel hit on the truth? Was Malfoy really just a wounded soul, torn between his father's wishes and his own inclinations?

There was only one way to find out. Fully expecting to be snubbed completely, but burning with curiosity nonetheless, he said, gently, "Knut for your thoughts, Malfoy?"

Draco looked up. There was a little concern in Blaise's eyes, but the driving force behind the question was just interest, he decided. He fought back his desired answer, which contained multiple swear words and considerable use of the words "filth" and "half-blood". If he truly wanted out of the trap his father had laid for him, he would have to leave such prejudices behind.

"I'm worried, Blaise," he said, truthfully enough. He saw the thin, black eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the civil answer. "They say that _he_ will be coming here."

"And you don't want to join him?" Blaise asked; the surprise in his voice perfectly obvious to Draco. Somehow it saddened him more than it angered him. He was surprised at the level of Zabini's intuition. He had always known that the boy was a genius, but surely he shouldn't have a monopoly on the sixth sense as well?

"No, I don't." It felt good to finally say it to someone. Blaise's eyes widened, but Draco got the feeling that he could trust him.

"Don't, then," was Blaise's laconic answer.

Draco was more than a little annoyed now. How could Zabini talk so simply about such a thing? He couldn't understand what it would mean for him, openly defying the Dark Lord and, far worse, his father. It wasn't that simple in real life.

"You can't talk like that," Draco said, coldly. "You don't understand."

"I do," replied Blaise, with a slight shake in his voice.

"You do?" Draco was nonplussed. Was he mad? How could he even begin to understand a thing? He wasn't the sort that the Dark Lord called. When could he have had to make such a choice?

"Yes, Draco, I do. However unbelievable it might seem to you, I had to tell my father that I wasn't going to be a Death Eater. I don't know why I'm talking to you like this, but it might help you, and perhaps there's more Gryffindor in me than I thought. I've gone through worse than you will ever have to face. I told my father when I was ten, okay? Can you imagine that? I knew exactly what a Death Eater was since I knew I was magical. And I hated it. Before I'd got my acceptance letter or anything, I told him. He didn't like it. But he didn't disown me. And so he died for my faithlessness." Tears were freely streaming down Blaise's face. Draco was stunned. "Do you understand, Malfoy? My father died because of me, because of something I believed!"

Draco understood, now, why Blaise was so quiet. If he blamed himself for his father's murder, then it was little wonder that he had distanced himself from the rest of the world. He felt a stab of guilt himself. If Zabini had already hated himself when he arrived at Hogwarts, how much worse must he and his cronies have made him feel? Draco fought the feeling; Malfoys did not feel guilty. He cursed himself silently for still thinking that way. He was not just another Malfoy; he was _Draco_.

"Your father was a Death Eater?" Draco asked, trying to compose the jumbled mass of thoughts in his platinum blond head. "I never knew."

"I'm a half-blood, Malfoy," Blaise said, sadly. "My father was a blood traitor. A pureblood, but he married a Muggle. It's called love, I've heard." The tears might have stopped, but now Blaise was shaking. "He felt like a traitor. Other purebloods made him feel that way. So he became a Death Eater, to compensate. How he could do it, how he could separate his wife from the people that he killed, I can't imagine. I could never join him. It would have been like murdering my mother. The Dark Lord was keen, when I was born, that I join them. He's a half-blood himself, but _his_ father abandoned his mother. Maybe he saw in me the happy ending he never had. Maybe he just wanted a half-blood whipping boy. I don't know. I'll never know."

Draco looked at Blaise. The boy was an emotional wreck. _I helped to do this_, a voice in his head told him, and he felt completely wretched. Blaise was crying freely again; he was so distraught that he didn't fend off Malfoy's clumsy attempt to comfort him. Draco fought down the impulses that told him to drop the dirty half-blood, screaming at him that emotion was weakness and that Malfoys didn't comfort. He watched the tears roll down the tanned face and shook his head. Some happy ending.


	11. Hell and Hearsay

**Thanks to LaLuneNoir for reviewing _all _of the chapters. I love you so much!**

_**Chapter 10: Hell and Hearsay**_

"_It is easy – terribly easy – to shake a man's faith in himself. To take advantage of that to break a man's spirit is devil's work."_

George Bernard Shaw

It was Double Potions, the lesson that the Gryffindors hated and feared the most. Draco Malfoy actually looked forward to it; not only was Snape head of Slytherin House, but Potions was his best – and favourite – subject. He was perhaps two minutes late, as usual, but the teacher merely paused to give him time to sit down – next to Blaise, of course, there were no other seats left – and then continued to explain the potion that they were aiming to make that day. NEWT level potions were really complicated, and the board was crammed with complicated instructions that had to be followed to the letter. Hermione, he noticed, was jotting notes down enthusiastically; next to him, Blaise was drawing arcane doodles on a scrap of parchment.

Draco felt a little uncomfortable. He didn't know how Blaise would react to him. Would he be embarrassed? After all, the last time they had spoken, he had broken down into tears in the Slytherin common room. Such outbursts often lead to discomfort and awkwardness. Sure enough, Blaise shot a somewhat resentful look at him. That look was tragic; it composed all of the pain of the last six years of the other boy's life, and left Draco feeling that it was somehow his fault.

"Don't look at me like that, Blaise," he said, so quietly that no one else could hear. "I haven't told anyone. I won't, either."

Blaise had not realised that he was looking at Malfoy. He had felt him sit down, and just knowing he was there had caused him to think of the last time they spoke. He had cursed himself later for breaking down and showing such weakness, especially in front of Malfoy. Why should he _care_ if Malfoy was too weak to fight his father and his father's master? People are different; Blaise was ashamed that he had held his own behaviour, his own choices, up as an example to his enemy. He had been surprised by Malfoy's reaction. Who would have suspected that he had an ounce of compassion in his dark soul?

Blaise snapped back to the present moment with difficulty. "I'm sorry, Draco," he faltered. "It seems we have to work together. I know you don't like me, but please, don't hurt me."

Draco was nonplussed for a minute. Then he realised what Blaise meant. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to have to talk at all. With a start of surprise, Draco found that he understood Blaise. Normally knowing someone's weakness was an advantage for him; all the easier to bring someone down if you knew where to aim your arrows. But not today, not after Blaise had sobbed furiously in his arms in the common room, until he had thought that his own cold heart would break. He just didn't have it in him to be cruel today.

He just nodded, but Blaise's face was suffused with relief. They commenced with the potion making. Draco looked on in admiration. Blaise really was an expert. His nimble fingers worked quickly, slicing roots to the exact size in a minimum of time. He could be a potions master when he was older, Draco thought. Then he shivered as he realised that that was assuming that they would all be allowed to grow older.

Blaise cast the roots silently into Draco's silver cauldron and watched with a small satisfied smile on his face as the potion steamed and turned pale purple. His dark eyes flicked up to the board again and he began on the next ingredient. Draco realised that the tables had been turned here completely. Far from being in control of the situation as he was used to, he found himself intimidated by the extreme air of indifferent efficiency that surrounded Blaise.

And the boy still wouldn't speak. Draco felt a little irritated at that. After all, he had been conquering his instincts to comfort him when he was in tears in the common room. It went against the Malfoy grain to do such a thing. But then, one kind act does not erase five years of torment. It was unfair for him to ever expect Blaise to like him. He cast beetle eyes into the potion and saw it change from lilac to cyan. Blaise met his eyes as the potion began to emit silver shimmering smoke, and smiled.

Predictably, on the other side of the class, Harry and Hermione were not having such luck. Hermione, of course, was very precise and almost as good at potion brewing as Blaise. They would have been perfectly fine had it not been for Harry's distraction. He just couldn't concentrate properly. Hermione constantly had to stop him from adding the wrong ingredient, or slicing his roots too small. It was all in vain, however, because Harry absently poured in twice the necessary amount of a rather evil smelling liquid, and the cauldron began to smoke and the potion turned a nasty shade of grey.

"Harry!" wailed Hermione.

Snape had seen. He made his way over to the hapless pair. "Well, Mr. Potter, no better at my subtle art than last year, I see. How you ever got an O in your OWL is beyond me. If your work does not improve, I might have to remove you from the course." Harry's eyes widened when he realised what that would mean. No Potions NEWT, no future career as an Auror.

Draco sniggered at this turn of events. Blaise merely raised an eyebrow in the direction of the disturbance and smiled, the thin smile of a genius tolerating fools. Everyone settled down again. This class was no longer just Gryffindor and Slytherin; it contained people from all houses in the sixth year. Draco knew that the majority of people in the room would side with him against Harry, so he just went back to his cauldron and resisted the chance to sneer.

Into the concentrated silence of the potions classroom came the Head Boy, a look of severe worry on his handsome face. Snape looked up at the disturbance, and most of the girls in the class stared. Some of them were nudging each other and giggling, Draco noticed disgustedly. He also realised that a lot of his disgust was due to jealousy, because no girl had looked at him like that, and no girl ever would.

"Mr. Fletcher," said Snape, in his usual silky voice. "Perhaps you would care to explain why you are interrupting my potions class?"

Fletcher looked frozen. Draco could see that he was having trouble getting words out. He had never seen the Head Boy not be in control before. Was that fear in the ice blue eyes? He couldn't be sure, but he was willing to bet that whatever the news was, it was not good. Draco felt an icy terror clutch at his own heart. It was starting. The wheels of war were beginning to turn, and soon he would have to make his choice.

Daniel brought the words out. "Sir, Professor Dumbledore would like you to attend an emergency staff meeting." He paused, and then looked round at all of the students in the class. "And he asked me to say to all of you that he is afraid that Lord V-Voldemort is assembling his Death Eaters. They have plans for the school. We must all be prepared." He looked at Snape, and for once the hard eyed teacher looked away. The boy looked as if he _knew_ that all this information had come from him, from the spy in the Death Eaters' midst.

Snape stood, his black robes billowing around him, and said, "Class dismissed. All of you are to go back to your common rooms. Wait there for further news." He swept out of the room, followed by Daniel, leaving the sixth years to gossip fearfully whilst clearing out their cauldrons.

Draco looked over at Blaise. His jaw line was taut, and his eyes full of apprehension. He took a phial of the potion, murmuring, "It's a shame to waste it. I think it's gone very well." Then he waved his wand over the cauldron, and said, "_Evanesco._" The rest of the turquoise liquid disappeared. He looked up at Draco, who was smiling, faintly impressed though he would have been loath to admit it.

Daniel returned to the Slytherin common room after touring as many classrooms as he could find that still had students in, to find that it was full. This was unnatural. The Slytherins were not particularly social people, and hated all being jammed together in such a way. Normally, there would have been a fight. But not today, when everyone was contemplating the news. How many of them know which side they are on? Daniel thought. And how many of them will still be here when the Dark Lord has finished? His eyes rested on the one person he cared about: Blaise. If his friend was killed… well, he wouldn't be answerable for his actions against the murderer.


	12. Calm before the Storm

**_Chapter 11: Calm before the Storm_**

"_I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies_

_This is the dawning of the rest of our lives."_

Green Day (Holiday)

The panic had subsided. Professor Dumbledore made a speech at breakfast the day after the staff meeting, encouraging everyone to be vigilant, although it was not yet clear whether the Dark Lord was coming to Hogwarts or not. As the days and weeks passed, many people voiced the opinion that it had all been a false alarm. Anyone who dared to hope that, however, ought to have looked more carefully at Draco Malfoy. He was unusually restless, and the look of fear in his eyes could only mean one thing. There was nothing that Draco was more afraid of than having to choose which side to fight on.

Blaise toyed with his food. He couldn't eat. This was also unusual; like so many skinny people, he normally ate like a horse. But today he couldn't. Today his mind was absorbed with thoughts of the Dark Lord and the impending battle. He wondered vacantly what the battle would be like. Would there actually be front lines, or would it be a scrappy affair, like a second year fight in the Slytherin common room? He was on edge, knowing that many of his housemates were probably apprentice Death Eaters, and wondering whether he would be hexed from behind without any warning.

He was watching Ginny across the Hall, and she caught his eye and smiled. He felt a sense of glowing happiness, seeing that smile. He and Ginny were friends now. He had over a year and a half of school to convince her to feel differently about him. He was part of the way there. A shiver passed down his spine. He didn't want to tempt Fate by assuming that both of them would survive.

Daniel was sitting with the Gryffindors. For some reason, since the Halloween Feast, the Head Boy had been very friendly with Harry Potter, Ginny's brother, and the smart girl, Hermione. It seemed a little suspicious to Blaise, as well as a little bit unfair. If he wasn't friends with Ginny, he'd be all alone. Then he realised that Daniel was perhaps being kind, leaving him alone with Ginny to see what would happen, and he mentally thanked his best friend for his discretion.

He cursed him later, though, when he met Ginny, and her first words were, "I need to practise my Quidditch, Blaise."

"I don't play, Gin, you know that," he reminded her. "I don't even fly. I suppose I could throw balls from the back of the stands at you, but I won't be much use to you, I'm afraid." He spoke with genuine regret, which turned into genuine fear when he saw the girl's face set into a crafty Weasley expression. She was planning something, he knew, and he was terrified to think what it would mean for him.

"Ah, Blaise, I don't know why you won't fly, but you'll have to get back on a broom sometime, you know," she said, her eyes glittering in a dangerously cheerful way.

"Don't see why," grumbled Blaise, staring at the ground and wishing that he could keep his feet firmly on it for the rest of his life.

"Aw, come on, Blaise," she smiled at him, making the bottom drop out of his stomach and his heart begin to race. "Do it for me?"

The little vixen was clever, he thought, but his muscles were rigid with terror at the mere thought of getting on a broom and flying. "No, Ginny, I can't," he pleaded. "In my third year, Malfoy spun me some story about getting me a Chaser's spot on the Slytherin team, to get me to help him with his practice. The weather was appalling, but, well, I used to love Quidditch. I wanted nothing more than a place on that team. But it was all a trick. Malfoy drove me sideways into a tree, and my broom broke and I got stuck up there. He left me fifty feet up in the air in the pouring rain. Eventually the branch I was clinging to broke and I fell. I broke my wrist and nearly lost an eye. That's what the scar on my cheek is. Since then, I've never got on a broom, and I'm never going to, not even for you, _Ginevra_."

Ginny just stared at him in shock. She couldn't believe that anyone, even Malfoy, could be so _cruel_. But it only strengthened her resolve. She had to stop Blaise being afraid. It wasn't fair that Malfoy had stolen something so beautiful from him. She knew that she wouldn't be able to live without her Quidditch. She couldn't understand how that one night had changed Blaise so much. There had to be more to it than that, but if he didn't want to tell her, she wasn't going to ask. She was, however, determined to get him airborne…

"Look," she said, quietly, "I understand. Malfoy's said and done enough nasty things to me and my family and friends, so I know how nasty he can be. But don't stand there and tell me that you're going to let that puffed-up little pain in the arse stop you from ever getting back on a broom! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." And, seeing the way she was looking at him, with what seemed to be disappointment in her eyes, he did feel slightly ashamed.

Ginny pressed home her advantage. "Come on, it can't hurt. I won't ask you to do much, just a little spin round the pitch. You can borrow my broom. I'm really not taking 'no' for an answer, Mr Zabini." And so saying, she took his hand and half dragged him away, out of the Hall and onto the Quidditch pitch.

Harry smiled for what felt like the first time in ages. He had never thought that he could be friends with a Slytherin. But, although he did not yet consider Fletcher a friend, he certainly found him a pleasant change from Draco Malfoy. Obviously there was more than one sort of Slytherin, and Daniel was the good sort. Ron was still sulking and being less than sociable, because Fletcher was friends with 'that Zabini boy'. He was still angry that Blaise was getting far too close to his precious little sister, although, in Harry's opinion, Ginny was capable of looking after herself, and was far more likely to hurt Zabini than the other way around.

Daniel was equally enjoying Harry's company. Obviously, like all boys born into the magical world, he had grown up with the stories of the famous child who had defeated the Dark Lord at age one. He had been almost disappointed when the boy had turned up in his second year and had been nothing special. And he had been placed in the enemy house. But now, he saw why the famous Harry Potter was so well liked by all those who knew him well. He thought that the red headed boy, Ron, could be friendlier, and he wished fervently that Hermione would stop saying so many intelligent things and making him feel stupid. But at least she wasn't _staring_ at him any more.

He asked the question he had been longing to ask all morning. "Do you think that Voldemort's really coming to Hogwarts?"

Ron flinched at the name, and Hermione whitened, but it was the smallest response he had ever seen to actually saying the Name in conversation. But then, he reflected, these three had fought the Dark Lord more often than anybody he had ever met in his life. He felt slightly humbled.

"I don't know why he should," said Hermione, thoughtfully. "He's afraid of Dumbledore, however much he wants to kill Harry. But I was watching Malfoy at breakfast. He looks worried. He, of all people, should know if V-Voldemort is coming here. And if he looks worried, then that's probably why. I don't want to believe that he's coming, but if he is, sticking our heads in the sand really won't help us, will it?"

Her words were still bothering Daniel two hours later when he returned to the Slytherin common room to find Blaise curled up in an armchair with an enormous mug of steaming tea, reading _The Prince_ with an air of extreme concentration. Not wanting to disturb his friend too much, he made his way to a neighbouring armchair as slowly and quietly as he could. Blaise heard him, however, and looked up.

"Hey, Dan, have a good time with the boy wonder?" he asked, airily, but Daniel noticed the slight shake in his voice.

"Yes. What's Ginny been doing to you?"

Blaise's eyes filled with excitement. "I flew, Dan," he murmured, as if he hardly dared to believe it. "After all this time, I got back on a broomstick. She helped me. It was great, Dan, I'd forgotten how wonderful it feels to fly." He took a long sip of his tea. "Afterwards, of course, I was shaking like mad, so I needed a cup of tea to settle my nerves." He smiled wickedly, and Daniel thought absently that Ginny was very definitely good for Blaise.

"And the book?" he asked.

"That," explained Blaise, "is for the future. Machiavelli believes that the end justifies the means. Perhaps I need to convince myself of that before we all have to fight against the Dark Lord." He lifted the book and quoted, "_The first method of estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him"._ What do you think that says about You-Know-Who when he's got people like Crabbe and Goyle at his back?" he concluded, and both he and Daniel laughed at the thought.

A thought occurred to Daniel. "What do you think Malfoy would say if you went up to him and asked him to make you a Chaser on the Quidditch team?" he asked, his eyes glinting wickedly. "I mean, he said himself, they're all hopeless, they could do with a decent player."

Blaise laughed. "He'd probably scream. You know, now he doesn't need me to fly, I want to. He might kill me for being annoying. Anyway, I don't know if I do want to play. I'm not a very competitive person." He paused for a minute, then went on, "And if the rumours are true, there may not be a Quidditch Cup this year." His voice dropped still further as he gave voice to his deepest fear. "There may not even be a Hogwarts when they've finished."

Daniel stared at his friend in shock. Blaise was never the most cheerful person, but it was unusual to see him afraid. He had seen enough in his short life to take most things in his stride. But then, an attack by Death Eaters on Hogwarts was something unheard of, and even the expertly impassive Blaise could not avoid the terrible feeling of dread that had descended on the school.

Draco Malfoy entered the Slytherin common room, face whiter than usual and with a horrible light in his grey eyes. Daniel didn't have to hear what he was about to say. He _knew_. There were only two reasons that he could think of for the look on Draco's face, and neither of them were good.

Draco looked around at his fellow Slytherins, wondering how he could say what he had to say without being seen to take sides. A lot of them were supporters of the Dark Lord, but equally there were those like Fletcher, Zabini and Nott who were stubbornly neutral. And, who knew? Maybe there were students in Slytherin who were steadfast supporters of the Light.

In the end, all he said was, "It's happening. Dumbledore knows. _He_ is drawing closer. We must be prepared. We need to be prepared to fight. We need to be ready… by tomorrow."


	13. Without a Prayer

**_LaLuneNoir: Thank you for reviewing absolutely every chapter of this story. And I appreciate your comment on _Killing, not Murder_ as well. That's possibly the darkest thing I've ever written. I'm glad you're enjoying the intrigue. Sometimes _I _don't know which side the characters are on. But please don't melt into a little puddle (happy or otherwise). Firstly, think of the mess. Secondly, I would then lose my best reviewer on this story, and I might get lonely!_**

**_radcliffe bass: Yes, Draco is just misunderstood. But he's a weak person to my mind. I think perhaps in this story I've made him stronger than he actually is. Maybe it's just because I'm a sucker for a bad guy. According to JKR we are all "far too fond of Draco" but I can't help wanting to give every lost boy a chance to be redeemed. Is that so wrong? Thanks for loving it. I love all reviewers._**

_**A/N: This is a link chapter. That's why it's so short. Basically this is everyone's thoughts the night before the battle. I apologise for brevity and I will update a.s.a.p.**_

_**Chapter 12: Without a Prayer**_

"_Prayers are a disease of the will."_

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ginny couldn't sleep. Her eyes kept drifting open, and she realised with a start that she was shaking. It would all be happening so soon. She couldn't deny it; she was frightened. She was terrified. This was it; the first, last and only chance for all of them. She wasn't sure what she was more afraid of: dying, or watching her friends die and having to live without them. She just didn't know whether she could be strong enough. Would Dumbledore let the DA fight? If not, what had been the whole point of the association? And if he did, how many people that she cared about would not live beyond tomorrow?

Her thoughts drifted back to the disastrous night in the Department of Mysteries. They could all so easily have died then. She had survived the Dark Lord's murderous intent twice; would her luck run out? She remembered it all so clearly: Neville, bleeding and twitching; Hermione, so close to death; Ron, driven almost insane. The memories flooded in on her, haunting her. She wanted to scream. It was all too much.

The chiselled tanned face of Blaise leapt unbidden into her mind. She felt as if his presence was soothing her. She felt her resolve strengthen. She had to be strong. If she was not, then she would be easy prey. She had to fight, to protect all that she had ever loved. She looked into the dark eyes of the Blaise in her mind, and shook her head. She didn't love him! She couldn't! If he died… she wasn't sure if she could stand that. But she didn't want to think about him anymore! It wasn't fair that she be tormented like this! And yet, as she curled up to try and sleep, images of the shadowy Slytherin filled her troubled mind…

-

Draco didn't sleep. He would not sleep until he had made his choice. He remembered what Blaise had said that night in the common room. If a ten year old boy could defy the Dark Lord, surely he could do it at sixteen? The stricken eyes of Zabini haunted him. That was what his choice had made him. Draco wasn't sure what would be worse - death, or that living nightmare. But he still had to decide if he could live with himself if he chose the path of darkness, although the concept of a conscience was alien to Draco.

His father had taught him that Malfoys took what they wanted and didn't worry about whether doing that was right. His father - it always came back to that man! Draco burnt with hatred beneath his icy exterior. No, he had no conscience, but he remembered the speech the Headmaster had made in his fourth year, after Diggory had died. He hadn't liked the boy at all, but the speech, for some reason, had touched Draco's soul, triggering this new emotion of doubt, and had lodged in his mind. He would never have put it so himself, but he knew that now was the time when he had to make that choice, between what was right, and what was easy…

-

Blaise lay in his bed beneath the ground and tried to sleep. It was a futile effort. How could it not be? He was not going to be able to sleep, not with his worst nightmare becoming reality before his very eyes. He would not admit it, but he was afraid of death. He, who had imagined ending it all so many times in the depths of his misery, who had actually wanted to die so many times, now found that he desperately wanted to stay alive, that even if his life was even worse, it would still be better than nothing. That was what death was: nothing. And Blaise Zabini was terrified of nothing.

He remembered his father's dead body. That was why he had been shaken so badly by seeing Leonora lying dead at the Halloween feast. Another death, another one that was his fault, whatever Dumbledore could say. More than his own death, he feared causing someone else to die. His eyes glistened slightly with tears. What if Daniel died because of him? And what about Ginny? Blaise buried his head in his pillow and silently cried, wishing beyond anything that he did not care for anyone.

-

Daniel stared up at the ceiling, but he didn't see anything. His thoughts were far from the small room he found himself in. Tomorrow would be the day. He was resolute. He knew what he had to do. He only wished that he would not have to hurt so many people he knew in order to do it. Life was full of difficult choices. He'd made his choice, and now he had to see it through. Even if seeing it through tore him apart.

He couldn't feel fear. He was anaesthetised against the terror because he had faced it a year ago, when he had first realised what his destiny truly was. Now all he felt was impatience, and anticipation. He wondered briefly about Malfoy. On which side would he fight? Daniel wished beyond anything to have the power to look into minds, to know for sure how many people were truly with him. But he knew one thing for sure: he would do this, even if he had to do it alone.

-

Harry slept; he was terribly tired. But his dreams were cursed with the worst images of the past five and a half years. Why did it have to come to this? If he was truly destined to kill Voldemort, why couldn't this be settled between them? How many other people were going to have to die? He hated the Dark Lord for his ever-threatening presence. He hated Fate for making things happen this way, for letting it come to this.

He woke from a nightmare, sweating lightly, but nevertheless ice cold. He was a Gryffindor, he was the hero of the wizarding world, but somehow he just didn't want to have to live up to that any more. He didn't even know if he could do this. It was beyond him to see how he could ever get an advantage. Fear seized his heart. He was going to die tomorrow. He only hoped that he could take the Dark Lord with him somehow. These were not heroic thoughts, he knew, but they were all he had. He was truly alone, and without a prayer. But it was not the fear that now kept Harry awake. It was the pressure, knowing that, from that moment on, everything depended on him.


	14. Inevitability

**_LaLuneNoir: Always glad to hear your opinions on my story! You're right about Harry; he feels so much pressure to "be the hero" without actually understanding what a hero is. Mind you, everyone has a different idea of what a hero is ("Every man is a hero to someone" – Ralph Waldo Emerson) and since there's a war on, maybe Harry thinks he has to be a Bruce Willis figure. I found it interesting what you said about Cedric's death being the most "friendly". I suppose the only reason it really touched Draco was because of the words. It's the only death so far after which there has been a big speech made. Those words imprinted themselves on Draco's mind for a good reason: they sum up his decision. (If you want to read more about how Draco makes his decision, read my story _What is right, and what is easy_, which I wrote as an offshoot to Chapter 12._**

**_radcliffe bass: Glad I've made you think! I doubt Draco will be redeemed in canon. These are children's books, even though us older people like to read them and play with them (hey, I was 11 when the first book was published in 1997, I have an excuse!) and in children's books, the baddie is the baddie. Draco is the enemy, and I don't suppose it'll change any time soon, more's the pity. :( _**

**_Anyway, without further ado, here are the events of "tomorrow". When you get to the end, don't kill me. Please. It had to be that way._**

_**Chapter 13: Inevitability**_

"_Hell is paved with great granite blocks hewn from the hearts of those who said: 'I can do no other.'"_

Heywood C Broun (Wit's End)

The day dawned sluggishly, as if the sun had heard what atrocities were to be committed beneath it in the coming hours. Blaise had long ago given up on any attempt to sleep, and was sitting in an armchair in front of the dying fire, sipping cautiously on his fifth cup of coffee. He was on edge, for all he looked relaxed; he was certain that at any moment someone would attack him and the battle would begin. He had no illusions as to what this conflict was going to be. He didn't expect the Dark Lord to come out and fight fair after all this time. It was going to be short, unexpected, undignified and bloody – and that was if they were lucky.

The minutes felt like hours as he sat there, and he was surprised that it was only seven. Actually, he was surprised that no one else was awake. He was half-expecting the forces of darkness to assemble in the Slytherin common room before going on to take over the school. He felt that it was all far too quiet. The day was too normal. Had Draco been misleading them? Could they really trust him to tell the truth about something so important?

There was noise on the stairs. Someone was climbing them, coming closer to Blaise with every step. His body tensed. He felt his pulse begin to race and his eyes widen. It could be anyone, he knew that, but he was scared. If it could be anyone, it could be someone coming to kill him. He wished more than anything for an Invisibility cloak. He was a sitting target for whoever was climbing those stairs.

It was Daniel Fletcher. He looked across the room at his friend and smiled, tightly. "Scare you, Blaise?" he asked, with as much concern as he could muster.

"I thought… it was someone else," said Blaise, shaking with relief at seeing the familiar friendly face and hearing the soothing voice. "I thought that it was starting. I thought that someone was coming to kill me."

Daniel paled at the word "kill". He didn't want to think about it. He knew that pretending it wasn't happening was not an option, but he hated to think of it. Death was coming. There was no way that everyone in the school would get out of this alive. No way on earth would everyone escape. He had a job to do today, and whatever happened at least one person would die, and at his hands. It was a terrible responsibility for him to have to bear.

"They're all still sleeping," he reassured Blaise. I looked in on your dorm; I was worried that you weren't there. They're all fast asleep. The Death Eaters' sons are not the quickest off the mark, it would seem. No; the school is safe for now. For another couple of hours, I'd say, listening to that lot snoring."

He was proved wrong a few minutes later, when a small, dark boy appeared in the common room. He looked a little like Blaise, but his flat, dark blue eyes were filled with a sort of bitter spite that Daniel had never seen in his friend. Theodore Nott looked about, and seemed surprised to see the other two boys there. His eyes narrowed slightly. If Blaise's insomnia was going to ruin everything, he would kill the boy himself.

"What's up, Nott?" Daniel called out. "Where's this attack we've been promised?"

"Wait a while, Fletcher," sneered Nott. "It'll come soon enough, don't you worry. Just wait. They're coming as we speak. Who knows what'll happen when they get here? We just have to wait."

Blaise widened his eyes. Nott was acting strange. As far as he knew, the boy had yet to swear any allegiances in this new war. But there was a nasty cruel light in the dead eyes, and he knew that nothing good would come out of this encounter. He shifted his weight slightly, slipping his hand inside his robes to find his wand.

"What if you were _wrong_, Nott?" Blaise asked, deliberately taunting the other, to see if he would give anything away. "What if your dad didn't trust you enough with the information? I don't see anything starting here soon, do you?"

Nott bridled at the taunt. "Wrong? I don't think so, Zabini. It starts here, and now, with you!" He drew his wand, an unhealthily enthusiastic light reflecting in his eyes, and began, "_Ava-"_

Blaise was quicker. In a heartbeat, as soon as he had seen Nott grab at his wand, he had drawn, and before the other boy could send out the Killing Curse he shouted, "_Petrificus Totalus!" _And Nott fell to the ground in the body bind, harmless, as his wand bounced away across the common room floor.

"And there was I thinking he was neutral," said Daniel, his eyes wide with shock. "I think we should get out, Blaise. If he's up, the rest of them could get here at any time. I don't much fancy our odds. Two against four is a foregone conclusion, I'm afraid."

They left the Slytherin common room as quickly as they could, abandoning the immobile Nott without a backward glance. Both were unsettled. They knew now that it was only a matter of time before they would be fighting desperately for their lives.

It was nearly breakfast time, but the Gryffindor common room was strangely subdued. Ginny had barely slept at all, and by the looks of things neither had Harry. The hero looked dead tired, and she had to wonder whether he would be strong enough to do the things he had to do. She was frightened. She was among the few who knew that if Harry couldn't save them from Voldemort, then nobody could.

He sat in an armchair in the corner, saying nothing, looking into the middle distance at something only he could see. Ginny didn't go over and she didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. By the end of the day, Harry would either be a killer or a dead man. It was no wonder that he didn't want to talk about it. The thought of the battle ahead was probably consuming the whole of his mind.

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that Ron had to shake him to get him back from his trance-like state. Breakfast would be waiting, and although few people would feel like eating today, nothing would stop Ron from attacking the breakfast table. If he thought that way, he would probably say that there could be nothing worse than dying on an empty stomach. And he would say it with his mouth full.

Ginny descended the stairs to see Blaise sitting in the Entrance Hall with Daniel. He looked up, startled, when he heard them coming, and the look in his eyes frightened her. Something had happened. It could only mean one thing. Somewhere, the battle was already beginning. As she reached him, the Slytherin stood up and faced her, his whole expression one of dread and fear.

"What's happening, Blaise?" she cried. "Don't look at me like that. Tell me, what's going on?"

"It's starting," he said, flatly. "Theodore Nott just tried to kill me."

And before he could say any more, there was an earth-shatteringly loud crash. It split eardrums and knocked people to the floor. Something was starting, and it was starting in the dungeons. Among the Slytherins; exactly where everyone would be expecting it to happen. The Entrance Hall was suddenly full of people. People running, screaming and panicking like scared sheep. And into that mess of emotion and terror rushed the bright varicoloured lights of assorted curses. Three people dropped before anyone realised what was going on.

Daniel stood. He knew what he had to do. It was now or never. "Outside!" he shouted. "Run, to the Quidditch pitch! We can take them down easier if we get outside. In here, we haven't a hope!"

Blaise wondered which side his friend was talking to. He felt a pang for thinking disloyal thoughts, but there was something odd about Daniel. He couldn't place it exactly, but he always felt as if there was something that he wasn't being told. There was some big secret, and he wasn't in on it. He rather thought that it had something to do with the Potions Master, Snape.

He didn't wonder for long. He ran. They all did. It was undignified and scrappy, playground fights gone horribly wrong. He saw people everywhere, the bright lights of curses and spells shooting their way across the pitch like rogue bludgers. He elbowed one would-be attacker out of the way, and hexed as many people as he could just for being in front of him. He didn't care what side they were on. Anyone on this field might try to kill him. He might know that he would rather kill himself than sell his soul to the devil that was the Dark Lord, but his fellow students didn't.

He turned his head and caught sight of a head of red hair. He made his way towards it and found himself face to face with Ginny's brother, Ron.

"Come to kill me, Zabini?" the boy asked, glaring at him, his wand levelled at Blaise's chest height. "I told Ginny you were – "

Blaise brandished his own wand. "_Stupefy_," he called. The red Stunner went straight past Ron, hitting the girl who had been sneaking up behind him. "You were saying, Weasley?" Ron couldn't speak, his mouth was flapping uselessly. "Don't judge me by my house. Come over here and fight with me. Two can fight better than one."

Against his better judgement, and all the while looking about to see where Harry had got to, Ron crossed the few yards that lay between him and Blaise, and the pair of them fought together, joining the battle with a will. Blaise wanted to know where Daniel had gone, but he could be anywhere on that field, caught up in any part of this scrum of murderous students.

There was another loud bang, and all of a sudden there were more people on the pitch than there had been before. Taller people, people in dark cloaks and masks. Blaise knew that no one could Apparate inside Hogwarts grounds. So what was going on? Then he saw that there had been no magic involved. The perimeter wall had fallen, and more Death Eaters were climbing in over the rubble to join the fight. Now it was serious. Now it was no longer just students fighting other, misguided, students. Now the Death Eaters were here, and the Dark Lord had come to claim his prize. But where was Harry Potter?

Harry and the DA had secured the front part of the Ravenclaw stands as a base, and were so far repulsing all efforts by their opponents to get in at them. Now that the adult Death Eaters were here, though, Harry wasn't sure how much longer they could hold their own. Where was Dumbledore? Where were the Aurors? Why was it being left to a group of children – however well trained in defence – to fight the forces of supreme evil? And, most importantly, where was Ron?

Blaise cursed as he gently lowered Ron's limp body onto the first row of seats in the Slytherin stands. He put a finger to the other boy's neck, checking for the pulse that he was praying was still there. Ginny would never forgive him if he let her brother die. Miraculously, he was alive, and looking more closely, he was breathing normally and appeared uninjured. The curse that he had been so worried about had been a mere Stunner! The relief that filled him lasted a very short time indeed. It was hard to feel any happy emotion when surrounded by a vicious battle.

He was alone in the fight now. Ron had been good at watching his back. They'd protected each other well enough until now. Blaise craned his neck and could just see Harry Potter in the stands on the other side of the pitch. He sighed, resignedly, and plunged back into the fray in a desperate attempt to reach the place where the DA were gathered, firing off hex after hex in the seemingly endless ranks of the Dark Lord's followers.

Blaise was halfway across the pitch when he was hit by a Leg Locker curse from one of the DA. He swore violently as he fell to the ground, cursing the over zealous members of Potter's little army. Ginny saw him fall and nudged the author of the jinx hard, hissing:

"Creevey, you idiot! You've just hit Blaise!"

Colin Creevey looked abashed, pausing in his counter-attacks on the Death Eaters to protest, "But he's a Slytherin! He was heading over here! I thought he was attacking us!"

Ginny sighed but let it go. She watched Blaise struggle upright and remove the hex from his legs. He continued on through the fighting ranks of students. He knew that there were not very many students at Hogwarts – a few hundred, perhaps – but when they were all in one place, as now, there seemed to be thousands. Of course, the addition of the fifty or so Death Eaters was not helping matters at all. He cursed a seventh year Slytherin who seemed determined to stop him from reaching his destination, and smiled with satisfaction as the other boy crashed to the ground, already snoring loudly.

The emotion was short-lived, however, for no sooner had he taken one pace forward than a tall cloaked figure stepped out in front of him, saying: "Going somewhere, Mr. Zabini?" in a cold, sharp voice that Blaise knew only too well.

"Malfoy," he spat.

"So you know me?" The figure asked, and he could hear the smirk in the voice. "Then the hood is really unnecessary, don't you agree? After all, you should really get to look upon your killer's face, shouldn't you?"

The Death Eater lowered his hood and discarded his mask, to reveal the gaunt, sneering face of Lucius Malfoy. That smile was definitely not natural, Blaise decided, with some portion of his petrified mind. He raised his wand defensively, and Malfoy laughed. The cold grey eyes shone maliciously as the silver haired man raised his own wand, only one spell on his lips.

Daniel had been fighting in one corner of the pitch, not far from the DA. There was a lull in the battle, as if someone, somewhere, had decided that enough people had fallen and that it was time to get serious. He didn't see Voldemort standing in the middle of the field, scanning the place for Harry Potter. He was too busy looking for Blaise. He wanted more than anything for his only true friend to be alright.

As he stood, on the edge of a fight that was standing still, a flash of acid green light flickered across the corner of his eye. It was Killing Curse green. He looked round, desperately, just in time to see the curse light hit its target, and to watch Blaise crumple at the knees and crash to the floor.


	15. Finality

**_LaLuneNoir: Thank you so much, as usual you flatter me far too much. I don't deserve it. I scare myself with battle scenes. I never know the names of enough curses. And I always wonder if the emotions are realistic. I realise that we don't know what side Daniel is on yet. There have been lots of hints, but they were so ambiguous (intentionally) that I have no idea whether you think rightly or wrongly of him. I quite liked Chapter 13 too. It's one of my favourites. I hated having to kill Blaise, but my soul abhors a fluffy, happy ending. Hope you enjoy the new chapter._**

**_radcliffe bass: Yup, he's dead, I'm afraid. But Malfoy will get his, don't you worry. You might just like the scene where he dies. winks I know what you mean about Draco. Too many stories feature him only as one side of a relationship. He's a human being after all. I was surprised by your suggestion. Have I given you any reason to think that Draco might not fight as a Death Eater?_**

**_A/N: Does anyone recognise the OotP reference here? It's obvious, but I wanted to point it out so you knew it was intentional. Persuasive!Voldemort is courtesy of Acheron Hades, the villain from _The Eyre Affair_ by Jasper Fforde, which everyone should read. I'm not trying to go OOC, I just don't think we've seen enough of Voldemort to know how he'd react in this situation. Tell me what you think of it! Don't worry, this isn't the end. It's the last chapter, but there's an Epilogue to be added yet!_**

_**Chapter 14: Finality**_

"_Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect."_

James Stephens

He had no idea how he managed to cross the field that quickly, but the fact remained that he had, and that he now stood before his best friend's dead body and a triumphantly glowing Lucius Malfoy. Daniel was shaking with anger. He was going to kill – no, death was too good for him. He wanted to bind Lucius down and save him for the Dementors to kiss.

Malfoy looked at him, laughing. "What's wrong?" he asked, mockingly. Then he looked down at the warm body by his feet and said, "You're upset about him? Well, all's fair in war." Looking at Daniel's incensed expression and the hurt that ran deep in the cool blue eyes, he sneered, "Did you love him, Fletcher?"

Daniel did not grace him with a reply. He just raised his wand, prepared to extinguish the older Malfoy for good.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

As Lucius crashed down, Daniel turned. It had not been he who pronounced the sentence of death. His eyes widened with shock as he saw Draco Malfoy, his grey eyes filled with loathing, staring down at the dead body of his father. His wand was out. His breathing was accelerated. The body on the floor was all too obviously his doing. Daniel stared. He had never thought that Draco would have the strength.

"There, _father_," he muttered, sardonically. "That's what I think of you and your Lord, and your whole damn attitude. I had enough. Blaise was worth twelve of you, you disgrace to the name Malfoy."

Daniel had never seen such venomous hatred, and it surprised him so much that he forgot to cry for Blaise. It took him a few moments to notice that the fighting was at a standstill. Voldemort stood alone in the middle of a circle of the remaining Death Eaters and faithful students. He was looking up, smiling faintly, at the assorted ranks of the DA.

Harry Potter looked down at the devil below, his teeth grinding with pure rage. He still did not know where Ron was. If his friend was dead, then someone was going to pay dearly. Some detached part of his mind was surprised that he was not afraid to be facing the Dark Lord for what might be the last time, but he was too far gone for that now. Fear had turned to anger, and only a fool would have antagonised Harry at that moment.

Voldemort laughed up at him. "Seen enough death, Harry?" he called. "Why not come down here and finish this? Give yourself to me, and no one else need die. If you resist, why, then it will be your fault when everyone and everything you love is destroyed."

Daniel knew that feeling. The only thing at Hogwarts that he had ever truly valued was gone, and he had been deprived of his revenge. He started to edge forwards, pushing gently through the dumbstruck crowd to get a better view. Potter, the foolish hero, was descending from the Ravenclaw stands, wand in hand, obviously prepared to duel the Dark Lord to the death.

"See, Voldemort," the boy said, his green eyes flashing with suppressed anger. "I will duel you. Just as the prophecy said, we will fight and one will conquer."

The Dark Lord looked a little startled at the mention of this prophecy. Daniel smiled faintly. It looked as if this was something that Potter knew that his nemesis did not. But the boy was a fool to imagine that a sixth year student could destroy the most powerful dark wizard that the world had seen for a long while. Even if that sixth year student had banished that same dark one while still a baby, it was practically a suicide mission.

Harry felt resolute and strong. He had noticed the flicker in Voldemort's emotionless face when he had mentioned the prophecy. It was an advantage, albeit a slight one. He knew what the prophecy had said, while his enemy did not. So he could make the Dark Lord believe what he liked about it. He steeled himself for the duel, not forgetting the last time they had attempted to fight man to man. He would not be so lucky this time. There was no Portkey waiting to take him away now.

"Duel me?" Voldemort's voice was mocking. "But you forget, Harry; our wands will not work against one another. There is no way that we can fight. Unless…" he looked around, and his eyes fell on Daniel. Muttering something under his breath, he turned to the Head Boy, and said, "Mr. Fletcher, you know who I am, don't you?"

Harry watched in horror as Daniel looked up at the Dark Lord, a bland, flat look in his blue eyes, and replied, "Yes, Master."

"Good," Voldemort appeared to be smiling, although with his distorted face and his callous red eyes, it was impossible to tell. "Well then, boy, hand me your wand, so that I can kill this boy and we can win."

Daniel's wand hand hung loosely at his side. In fact, his whole body seemed unnaturally relaxed. He lifted his wand and began to walk towards the Dark Lord. Harry could see something odd in his eyes, as if some inner part of him was fighting against what he was doing. And then it all made sense to Harry. He realised exactly what was going on, and he had no desire to see Daniel do something that his true self was going to regret.

"Daniel!" he shouted. "Don't! It's only the Imperius, you can fight it!" The Head Boy turned his gaze towards the Boy-Who-Lived, and the last vestige of his independent mind flickered once again. Harry got the distinct impression that Daniel _was_ fighting it, but he was not strong enough to throw it off completely. Then he stopped dead, halfway between Harry and Voldemort, looking from one to the other, bewildered.

"Mr Fletcher!" snapped the Dark Lord. "Give me the wand!"

Daniel had felt the curse lift as if a large and heavy blanket had been lifted off of his senses. What was going on? He had been about to give his wand to Voldemort. He looked at the Dark Lord, whose vicious eyes bored through into his mind, filling him with utter hopelessness. He was fighting for a lost cause. There was nothing he could do. Whatever happened, the Dark forces were going to win. The despair flooded through him as he stood there, transfixed by the terrible eyes.

"The wand, Mr Fletcher," growled Voldemort, losing his fragile grip on his patience.

"Give me a reason," Daniel said, sharply, his wits returning steadily all the while.

"You are on the losing side, Fletcher, can't you see that?" the Dark Lord replied, abruptly adopting his persuasive side. Daniel did indeed see that, as the red orbs took over his vision and his mind. It was useless to resist any longer. "Now, give me that wand so I can finish this and we can all go home."

Daniel steeled himself. "Very well." Harry groaned. He had thought that Daniel Fletcher had had more courage and honour in him than to do this, even if he was a Slytherin. It seemed that no one was what they seemed to be. He had seen Draco Malfoy kill his father. The world was turned upside down. People he had thought to be evil were not, and people he had trusted were too easily misled.

"But I beg leave to finish it myself," Daniel finished, lowering his eyes from those of the Dark Lord, as if indicating respect. Voldemort just laughed. The sound incensed Daniel for some reason. He lifted the wand. "I will finish this. We can all go home. You can go to the only place that you could ever reasonably call home… I'm going to send you to Hell."

And with that, before the Dark Lord could react, Daniel recited the words of the third Unforgivable. Looking deeply into the red eyes, he watched as the green light blazed between them and hit its target. He looked on as the body of the most powerful evil wizard of his time collapsed into the grass of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.

He felt numb. Nothing was happening any longer. He didn't want to move. He heard the Aurors arrive, rounding up the remaining Death Eaters, but he didn't turn to look. He had just defeated Lord Voldemort with a single curse and the element of surprise. He had just done the thing that his aunt Sybil had told him that he would. He would be a hero. He would marry Kirsten and live happily ever after. And yet, despite everything, he stood apart and alone, wishing beyond anything that Blaise was by his side.


	16. Epilogue: Still Waters

**_This is the end. There will be no more. There _could _potentially be a sequel, but alas! I have no heart for sequel writing. LaLuneNoir, I'm glad you think I got the hollowness of Daniel's victory across. I hope no one objects too much that I stole Harry's heroism from him. It's perhaps not the best idea to have an OC save the day, because people accuse you of wanting to save the day yourself. I assure you that Daniel is nothing like me! And as for the "foolish hero", I don't dislike Harry, I just think that, as Hermione said, he's got a bit of a "saving-people-thing" and that a Slytherin hero (as incongruous as that sounds) would be better. Okay, they'd be a bit self-centred, but they wouldn't try and get themselves killed! Oh, yeah, I am a Slytherin. 9/10 Sorting Hats placed me in Slytherin. The other put me in Ravenclaw. So I annihilated it. _**

**Thanks to all reviewers on all chapters. Check out my WiP _Futile Cycles_, which will be miraculously updated sometime this week (Friday, I think).  
**

_**Epilogue: Still Waters**_

"_Is this the place we used to love?_

_Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?"_

Keane (Somewhere Only We Know)

Draco Malfoy and Daniel Fletcher stood side by side. They didn't want to be here together and they certainly hadn't planned it this way. The small grey headstone stood before them, half covered with snow. It had snowed late this year, drifting down from the mountains in time for the New Year, covering the field that had briefly been a battle zone. The snow made the slaughter grounds look far more innocent than they were; as if it were still nothing more than a Quidditch pitch. But from here, from the Hogwarts graveyard, it could not be seen, though equally, neither boy could forget it.

Christmas had been terrible that year. After that fateful day at the end of November, when the battle had been lost and won, Hogwarts had closed, sending every student home for an extended holiday. Except that for the grieving the break was never going to be a holiday, and there was no one in the school who had not lost someone. No one was entirely unscathed. Especially not Draco Malfoy, hailed a hero for his last minute conversion. Daniel didn't like him and never had, but he had to feel sorry for him, becoming famous for cutting down his own father. Thinking about Lucius Malfoy reminded him of that day again and forced his dead friend's image into his mind. He had to take a deep breath to stop himself from crying.

Daniel stared down at the partially obscured engraved lettering. Blaise ought to have been buried by his family, he thought, bitterly. But Blaise didn't have a family. He had never known that. Dumbledore had told him when they were discussing the burial. His best friend, and he never knew! Malfoy had known. That hurt Daniel, knowing that Blaise had confided more in his worst enemy than he had in him. It tore his soul to hear Draco say that he thought that Blaise would hate to be buried near his murdered father, and not understand what he meant.

The two boys ignored each other now, though they were barely two feet apart. They would have stood in silence for ever if not for Ginny Weasley, who pushed between them to lay a bunch of pinched winter roses at the base of the stone. It was a futile gesture; the blooms would be dead before the day was over. The girl breathed quickly, her breath crystallising as she looked down. She read the words in their deep, copperplate script, saying them aloud as if it were an incantation that could restore the boy to life.

_Blaise Zabini_

_4th March 1980 - 28th November 1996_

_Altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi_

Draco Malfoy looked at her as the last Latin syllable rolled uncertainly off of her tongue. "The deepest rivers flow with least sound," he translated, softly. "Still waters run deep. Quite appropriate for Blaise, don't you think, Ginny?"

She looked up, startled that he used her first name. "Yes," she stuttered, flustered, but also aching. His death had hit her hard. She hadn't realised how much she had needed to see his face every day until he was gone. There was no going back. She felt the tears well up in her eyes. She tried to wipe them away discreetly, as if terrified of showing emotion in front of Malfoy, even if he was no longer the enemy.

Draco looked at her sharply, noticing the emotion in her eyes despite her efforts. "Did you love him, Weasley?" he asked.

Daniel flinched as Draco unconsciously echoed his father's words. But he did not say anything. Draco was not being cruel. He could not know they were the words that Lucius had used, and if he had known he would never have said them. It was an unlucky chance, nothing more. He wasn't really trying to hurt Daniel, or the girl. But Ginny was hurting anyway, and there was nothing that either of them could do about that.

She coloured slightly, and seemed to be thinking - rather, being tormented by thoughts. "Maybe," she murmured. "I did. I never wanted to, but I did. I loved him against my will and against every instinct in my body. But I did love him. When I saw his body, and realised that he never knew what I felt, and that he never would know, I thought my heart would break. Do you understand how that makes me feel?" She sank to her knees in front of the stone, sobbing her heart out. Tears rolled down her face and into the soft drifts of snow.

Draco watched her. She reminded him of Blaise, when he had told him about his father's death. This was a different sort of love, a different sort of guilt, and yet another thing that Draco Malfoy had never experienced and could never understand.

"He loved you, you know," Draco said, flatly. "I know he did. He as good as told me. I tried to blackmail him into crippling Potter for me, using that knowledge. He may never have known how you felt, but he would've wanted you to know that he loved you."

Ginny felt angry. How could Malfoy do this to her? "Malfoy!" she shouted. "Do you have to tell me this now? Now that he's dead, and I can't do a thing to change that? Now I can't have him any more, you have to tell me that he felt the same, that we could have been together! He's dead, Malfoy, and nothing matters any more!"

"You're wrong, Ginny," Draco said, hating himself for making her cry. "He would've wanted you to know. Shout curses at his memory or his headstone if you want to, but please don't shout at me." He added, mostly to himself, "My heart won't take that."

She only walked away, sadly. Daniel turned to Draco and said, "Go after her. She needs someone, Draco. She needs help." And Draco didn't argue. Daniel watched him approach the girl, watched him start to speak, and then found that his eyes had clouded and he could watch no more.

He looked down at the fresh stone. "I'm sorry, Blaise. But it's for the best." He paused, remembering how Blaise had loved peppering his speech with quotations, and added, "All is for the best in this best of all possible worlds." But he didn't look as if he believed it. And when he leaned forwards to touch the cold grey headstone, a tear rolled down his face and fell to the ground, mingling with Ginny's in the melting snow.

_**-Finis-**_


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